Thursday, January 31, 2008
For anyone who ever wondered what a pencil dick looks like
I had to take a quick break from smoting rhinovirus 1A's ruin upon the mountainside because James McBride continues to fish for traffic on my comment pages by somehow suggesting that pictures of his dick there will be the perfect finisher for a lengthy tirade about how much he hates Barack Obama because...you guessed it, Barack Obama is black! Oh, and even though Barack Obama isn't Muslim, his name sounds KIND OF like "Osama" and that's good enough for James.
Anyway, I don't want James getting traffic, and frankly, I'll sacrifice myself so you don't have to endure the horror of his site, where you can witness nasty shit like low-quality webcam shorts of his fug wife fucking him with a dildo or licking his hammer toes. GROSS! So I went ahead and posted pictures of his much-touted wang. Then I took a long shower. Not just a quick spin under the showerhead to freshen up, but the kind of frantically scrubbing shower that rape victims in Lifetime movies take post-attack. And even after scrubbing myself raw, I still can't entirely stop myself from involuntary repulsed shuddering.
Take a good look at Jaimie's dick. While it is longer than I thought it would be (I had him pegged--pun intended--as a four-incher, but I'll give it to him that he's got at least five and a half), this is a textbook case of what I call PENCIL DICK. That shit is skinny! And unsatisfying, and I know every lady who has suffered the misfortune of fucking one feels me. A long pencil dick is the worst. It takes sex--which is normally fun and enjoyable--into somthing akin to making a cervix kabob. Nast. In addition to its distressingly small diameter, James McBride's phallus has not one but two undesirable qualities: it also has a burl! So not only is his dick too skinny, it's malformed! No wonder his wife is so partial to her dildo collection.
As if this wasn't unappealing enough, let me just point out strike three. Before frightening everyone who made the mistake of going to his site, this penis was buried firmly in the ass of every HIV-infected skinhead at Elmira. The only thing that turns me on about this cock is that I could probably get a first-author paper culturing previously unknown strains of herpes simplex out of it. I'm sure I could at least publish it in some shitshow like the Journal of General Virology. James's weiner is gorgeous from the perspective of someone looking to study novel clinical isolates of pathogens sexually transmitted from one incarcerated felon to another. And on that note, I think I'm going to skip lunch. I've lost my appetite anyway.
***SHUDDER***
Anyway, I don't want James getting traffic, and frankly, I'll sacrifice myself so you don't have to endure the horror of his site, where you can witness nasty shit like low-quality webcam shorts of his fug wife fucking him with a dildo or licking his hammer toes. GROSS! So I went ahead and posted pictures of his much-touted wang. Then I took a long shower. Not just a quick spin under the showerhead to freshen up, but the kind of frantically scrubbing shower that rape victims in Lifetime movies take post-attack. And even after scrubbing myself raw, I still can't entirely stop myself from involuntary repulsed shuddering.
Take a good look at Jaimie's dick. While it is longer than I thought it would be (I had him pegged--pun intended--as a four-incher, but I'll give it to him that he's got at least five and a half), this is a textbook case of what I call PENCIL DICK. That shit is skinny! And unsatisfying, and I know every lady who has suffered the misfortune of fucking one feels me. A long pencil dick is the worst. It takes sex--which is normally fun and enjoyable--into somthing akin to making a cervix kabob. Nast. In addition to its distressingly small diameter, James McBride's phallus has not one but two undesirable qualities: it also has a burl! So not only is his dick too skinny, it's malformed! No wonder his wife is so partial to her dildo collection. As if this wasn't unappealing enough, let me just point out strike three. Before frightening everyone who made the mistake of going to his site, this penis was buried firmly in the ass of every HIV-infected skinhead at Elmira. The only thing that turns me on about this cock is that I could probably get a first-author paper culturing previously unknown strains of herpes simplex out of it. I'm sure I could at least publish it in some shitshow like the Journal of General Virology. James's weiner is gorgeous from the perspective of someone looking to study novel clinical isolates of pathogens sexually transmitted from one incarcerated felon to another. And on that note, I think I'm going to skip lunch. I've lost my appetite anyway.
***SHUDDER***
Labels: assholes, gross, Razzy Haters, small penises, weiners
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my head against the wall because I got nothin'
Okay, I don't have time to wax poetic about anyone I want to screw today, because I am running late and I have eighty trillion things to do today. Like figure out why the fuck my now-upgraded laptop won't start iTunes, and hassling the people who run Columbia's Stratagene freezer about whether or not my PCR enzymes have arrived yet, and write an abstract to present at this year's American Society for Virology conference in BEAUTIFUL and EXCITING Ithaca, New York, and finish up some crap for my job at the patent office, and make rhinovirus 1A my bitch, and a bunch of other things that are too boring to merit writing about. Thus I'm too busy thinking about banal shit to come up with anyone I want to ravish and/or praise, and too busy to write anything remotely interesting about the subject. Tomorrow I'll be back to my usual routine of bitchery and self-aggrandization. I'll probably trash the New England Patriots in honor of the upcoming Super Bowl and celebrate John McCain's ass-stompery in Florida. Maybe I'll put up a picture of my boobs or something, too. In any case, I'll do something which, unlike this, isn't totally half-assed. In the meantime, feel free to prosaically spar with racist morons on the comment page. That's always entertaining.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Justin Long
DOB: June 2, 1978
Occupation: hawking Macs, trashing PCs, starring in shiteous movies, and sticking his dick into Drew Barrymore's fug ass
Hometown: Fairfield, Connecticut
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I LOATHE those "I'm a Mac, I'm a snotty, pretentious asshole" commercials promoting computers such as the one on which I am typing right now. Most of the time, I am very pleased with my MacBook. However, sometimes it's just as much of a pain in the ass as any other kind of computer. Yesterday, for example, I had to wait five hours while it failed to successfully migrate all my files from my work computer for a second time. After those five hours I had to move the files manually anyway because for whatever reason, the "Migration Manager" didn't like moving the mp3 file for "Yeah" by Big Kuntry King and cancelled out the entire process. If Justin Long had showed up and been all, "I'm a Mac, firewires are awesome," I would have punched him in his smug, smirking face.
Supposedly, Justin's condescending personification of a Mac computer is supposed to make me want to be Mac-snobby, as well. I will NEVER be one of those tools who runs around saying shit like "I have two gigs of RAM and I'm running Leopard" or the typical nobody-cares crap that Mac snobs generally spout off with little or no provocation. While Justin's performances on the silver screen are forgettable at best, his work in the Mac ads is inescapable for me, as I'm both a TV junkie and a Mac owner. I could ignore Herbie: Fully Loaded, but sadly, as I love my computer almost as much as my dogs, I'm not only confronted by Justin, but thanks to Apple's marketing department, I'm fucking REPRESENTED by him. Fuck!
Justin sucks and I hope his career tanks and Apple goes in a different direction with their advertising strategies. Now that he's mildly famous for his Mac commercials, he keeps showing up on my celebrity gossip webpages sucking face with none other than Drew Barrymore. I hate Drew Barrymore. Between her tormenting the world with filling its theater screens with shiteous romantic comedies and perfecting the Bassett Houndish expression that people seem to think is cute, Drew Barrymore is a permanent bane to our culture. I don't need more paparazzi footage and boring gossip about Drew Barrymore, and I sure as shit don't need said internet gossip to feature her sucking face with this Justin Long dipshit.
Besides, Justin Long went to Vassar. Actually, he dropped out of Vassar to play the love interest of the legendary Ms. Britney Spears in her cinematic classic Crossroads. Vassar breeds douchebags. Okay, so I know a few smart, cool people who went to Vassar, but they've got to be exceptions. Vassar is a veritable cavalcade of losers compared to the factory of awesomeness that is Smith Col--wait, what am I saying? Everyone knows that Smith College is not a "factory of awesomeness." More like "factory of ugly boobmashers listening to Melissa Ferrick and looking for stuff to complain self-righteously about." I shouldn't throw stones about him going to a college full of fugly bitches. So I can't hate on our co-ed Seven Sister Vassar too much, except to say that if Vassar's student body has as many losers as Smith's, then those are who Justin Long was probably hanging out with when he went there. He was probably involved with the Vassar equivalent of the Smith acapella group scene. What an asshole.
Labels: celebrities, computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, movies, you're ugly
A hero's welcome
Several months ago, my friend from grad school ILoveWhiteTrash wondered if she could write for this very blog. As she is smart and funny, I responded promptly in the affirmative and added her as a contributor. She hadn't gotten around to writing anything until yesterday, and her timing couldn't have been better. I was transferring all my files from my work computer to my laptop because my work computer is old, slow, and shitty, and this tedious process took so fucking long that I wasn't able to do anything computational until last night. Luckily, ILoveWhiteTrash came in at a clutch moment and provided some Razzification in my absence.
I'd encourage you all to leave her some comments to welcome her to the site, but that's already been taken care of by Doctor James McBride (and in his case "Doctor" actually means "NYSDOC Inmate #88A9510"). Regular Razzyphiles may remember James McBride from my douchebagging of him a couple weeks back. Unfortunately, the bad press hasn't stopped James from filling my inbox with idiotic racist-flavored e-mails at least three times a week, and doing a lot of detective work on his site logs. Last week he suggested that based on some IP address from New York that visited his site, I was "trolling" his content (I was not--I have a low tolerance for both racist bloviating and piss-poor grammar and spelling) and then sent me a picture of the building where that address originated. I was like, "That's not my building, dumbass, and quit trying to scare me via demonstrations of your ability to read your site logs and convert that information into stalker-esque intimidation tactics." I'm pretty sure that he's trying to antagonize me in the hope that I'll link to him and boost traffic to his pathetic site. Sha right, loser.
Anyway, ILoveWhiteTrash's combined love for Keith Olbermann and disdain for Ann Coulter apparently has inspired this fucktard to get busy on the comment page calling her "another uneducated liberal skank" (and I should add that ILoveWhiteTrash is about to defend her doctoral thesis in hardcore, I-solve-crystal-structures biochemistry, so she's definitely less educated than James), and offering to send pictures of his dick. I have no doubt that James, an unemployed ex-con who spends 90% of his time lifting weights and the other 10% of his time working on his Vicodin addiction, has such an impressive schlong that ILoveWhiteTrash and I will both be awestruck by its breathtaking grandeur and scope. Webcam photos of overcompensating prison dick are like our kryptonite.
I really can't welcome ILoveWhiteTrash to the site any better way than by congratulating her on stirring up comment drama and acquiring haters in her very first post. She's a natural.
I'd encourage you all to leave her some comments to welcome her to the site, but that's already been taken care of by Doctor James McBride (and in his case "Doctor" actually means "NYSDOC Inmate #88A9510"). Regular Razzyphiles may remember James McBride from my douchebagging of him a couple weeks back. Unfortunately, the bad press hasn't stopped James from filling my inbox with idiotic racist-flavored e-mails at least three times a week, and doing a lot of detective work on his site logs. Last week he suggested that based on some IP address from New York that visited his site, I was "trolling" his content (I was not--I have a low tolerance for both racist bloviating and piss-poor grammar and spelling) and then sent me a picture of the building where that address originated. I was like, "That's not my building, dumbass, and quit trying to scare me via demonstrations of your ability to read your site logs and convert that information into stalker-esque intimidation tactics." I'm pretty sure that he's trying to antagonize me in the hope that I'll link to him and boost traffic to his pathetic site. Sha right, loser.
Anyway, ILoveWhiteTrash's combined love for Keith Olbermann and disdain for Ann Coulter apparently has inspired this fucktard to get busy on the comment page calling her "another uneducated liberal skank" (and I should add that ILoveWhiteTrash is about to defend her doctoral thesis in hardcore, I-solve-crystal-structures biochemistry, so she's definitely less educated than James), and offering to send pictures of his dick. I have no doubt that James, an unemployed ex-con who spends 90% of his time lifting weights and the other 10% of his time working on his Vicodin addiction, has such an impressive schlong that ILoveWhiteTrash and I will both be awestruck by its breathtaking grandeur and scope. Webcam photos of overcompensating prison dick are like our kryptonite.
I really can't welcome ILoveWhiteTrash to the site any better way than by congratulating her on stirring up comment drama and acquiring haters in her very first post. She's a natural.
Labels: ILoveWhiteTrash, Razzy Haters
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
How do you tell your future mother-in-law to go suck a dick?
It all began about 15 years ago, when my future father-in-law decided to uproot his family from their home in Brooklyn and move to Putnam County, NY. At that time, the family could get a bigger bang for their buck as far as homes and property go by moving upstate. However, the area was sparsely populated so moving up there meant country living for the family. With no family, no friends, no job, no driving ability, husband at work, and kids at school, the matriarch of the family was left to her own devices. But instead of discovering the peen of a young Latino gardener, this desperate housewife discovered conservative talk radio. And that shit has become her whole life.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my f.m.i.l.’s political leanings are because I am not fucking her nor marrying her. But all she ever does is talk about politics (and by talk I mean repeat whatever bullshit she heard on Fox News that day) and she expects everyone else to agree with her (and gets irate when they don’t). I bit my tongue for a long fucking time because I happen to love her son, Mr. T.
Having grown up with one of those Keith Olbermann loving liberal moms, I am accustomed to political discussions around the dinner table. But I am also accustomed to them remaining civil (mostly) and the opinions of others’ are typically respected or at least tolerated. At a recent dinner with Mr. T’s parents, f.m.i.l. pulls out some book by Ann Coulter and starts raving about it. I can’t fucking stomach Ann Coulter. I think she is a fucktard. She is incapable of defending her views and debating a point like an adult, so she resorts to name calling and ends up looking like a fucking idiot to me. And while I do have an eye for the ladies, looking at Skeletor/Marc Anthony in a blond wig doesn’t get me all hot and bothered. I couldn’t endure the idol worship any longer, so I said, “I can’t stand Ann Coulter”. I didn’t get an opportunity to explain why because f.m.i.l. quickly snapped, “Well I love her because she tells all the assholes where to go with themselves.”
All I kept thinking was, “did this bitch just call me an asshole?” I don’t agree with anything Ann Coulter says, so wouldn’t I be one of those aforementioned assholes she tells where to go? I mean f.m.i.l., who I’ve heard say some really dumb shit, is trying to call ME an asshole?! WTF? The good thing is, I didn’t slap that ho, so I didn’t go to jail. But I wanted to; in fact I still do. After we left, Mr. T was telling me to be cool and consider the source bla bla bla. But I don’t know if I can be gracious for much longer. So my only hope is to keep her quiet somehow. This is where the dick in her mouth comes in! I just need to figure out how to make this happen…
Note: Unlike Razzy, I suck at spelling and punctuation. Too bad. Like Razzy, I have big tits.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my f.m.i.l.’s political leanings are because I am not fucking her nor marrying her. But all she ever does is talk about politics (and by talk I mean repeat whatever bullshit she heard on Fox News that day) and she expects everyone else to agree with her (and gets irate when they don’t). I bit my tongue for a long fucking time because I happen to love her son, Mr. T.
Having grown up with one of those Keith Olbermann loving liberal moms, I am accustomed to political discussions around the dinner table. But I am also accustomed to them remaining civil (mostly) and the opinions of others’ are typically respected or at least tolerated. At a recent dinner with Mr. T’s parents, f.m.i.l. pulls out some book by Ann Coulter and starts raving about it. I can’t fucking stomach Ann Coulter. I think she is a fucktard. She is incapable of defending her views and debating a point like an adult, so she resorts to name calling and ends up looking like a fucking idiot to me. And while I do have an eye for the ladies, looking at Skeletor/Marc Anthony in a blond wig doesn’t get me all hot and bothered. I couldn’t endure the idol worship any longer, so I said, “I can’t stand Ann Coulter”. I didn’t get an opportunity to explain why because f.m.i.l. quickly snapped, “Well I love her because she tells all the assholes where to go with themselves.”
All I kept thinking was, “did this bitch just call me an asshole?” I don’t agree with anything Ann Coulter says, so wouldn’t I be one of those aforementioned assholes she tells where to go? I mean f.m.i.l., who I’ve heard say some really dumb shit, is trying to call ME an asshole?! WTF? The good thing is, I didn’t slap that ho, so I didn’t go to jail. But I wanted to; in fact I still do. After we left, Mr. T was telling me to be cool and consider the source bla bla bla. But I don’t know if I can be gracious for much longer. So my only hope is to keep her quiet somehow. This is where the dick in her mouth comes in! I just need to figure out how to make this happen…
Note: Unlike Razzy, I suck at spelling and punctuation. Too bad. Like Razzy, I have big tits.
Labels: family matters, ILoveWhiteTrash, PWT, retard rage
Shameless pitch
One of my buddies from a neighboring lab started up a blog of his own and came to me seeking counsel, as I am the department's resident expert on attention-grabbing bloggery. "It's addictive," he said concerning his newfound passion for weblog authoring. True that. My blogging addiction has cost me countless hours of missed sleep, ample destroyed shreds of dignity, and hundreds of dollars on Sugar-Free Red Bull.
I checked out his site and told him that he needs to put up some pictures because it's awfully texty, but otherwise commended him on a job well done. His whole thing is taking news stories and retooling them ever-so-slightly to be funny. His humor is very subtle, but I have to say that I would read a lot more news if it included shameless addendums to Dana Perino press conference sound bites and snide comments about Bush's State of the Union address. So go check him out:
http://teurders.blogspot.com/
I checked out his site and told him that he needs to put up some pictures because it's awfully texty, but otherwise commended him on a job well done. His whole thing is taking news stories and retooling them ever-so-slightly to be funny. His humor is very subtle, but I have to say that I would read a lot more news if it included shameless addendums to Dana Perino press conference sound bites and snide comments about Bush's State of the Union address. So go check him out:
http://teurders.blogspot.com/
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), grad school bullshit
Licking snatch for dummies
I'm not calling her a dummy, but one of my friends has recently decided that she's a lesbian, and has looked to yours truly for some sage advice on how to get with the scene. While some of you are probably scoffing and thinking that this is the blind leading the blind, let me be the first to admit that while I suck at things like cohabitating and attending open mic nights and making tea and liking folk music, I am awesome at soliciting strangers for random dirty sex. Plus, while I am primarily a dick-jockey, I've certainly had my face in its fair share of female crotches, I have practical, experience-based knowledge of the technical aspects of banging broads, and I did go to Smith College. I'm better qualified than many to be a newbie dyke's lesbian mentor.
Anyway, this friend--who has another name on this site but who for this post I will call Twathopper (as in "you are learning, grasshopper," except about vaginas instead of kung-fu)--is doing the online dating thing and thanks to some of my tips about how to keep the bitches clamoring for her by being selective about returning game-spitting text messages, has some solid prospects for finally becoming "legit." A while ago, she told me she had finally made out with some straight girl at a bar and was thus "legit." I argued that her legitimacy as a lesbian was established a year before when she voluntarily had an article for Runner's World written by some dumb Brooklyn hipster she was jocking matted and framed as a just-because-you're-my-friend (sha) gift. That's about as lesbish as it gets short of showing up in a U-Haul with all your shit in it after two dates. Anyway, she was insisting that sucking straight girl face was a more tangible milestone to full-fledged dykehood than infatuated gift-giving, and I said that if she was going to dictate her lezzie status based on physical consummation, then it was high time she started kissing a different set of lips.
Now that she has some prospects thanks to my outstanding methods of reeling in chicks from the online WSW community, we discussed her next steps in a recent Gchat.
Anyway, this friend--who has another name on this site but who for this post I will call Twathopper (as in "you are learning, grasshopper," except about vaginas instead of kung-fu)--is doing the online dating thing and thanks to some of my tips about how to keep the bitches clamoring for her by being selective about returning game-spitting text messages, has some solid prospects for finally becoming "legit." A while ago, she told me she had finally made out with some straight girl at a bar and was thus "legit." I argued that her legitimacy as a lesbian was established a year before when she voluntarily had an article for Runner's World written by some dumb Brooklyn hipster she was jocking matted and framed as a just-because-you're-my-friend (sha) gift. That's about as lesbish as it gets short of showing up in a U-Haul with all your shit in it after two dates. Anyway, she was insisting that sucking straight girl face was a more tangible milestone to full-fledged dykehood than infatuated gift-giving, and I said that if she was going to dictate her lezzie status based on physical consummation, then it was high time she started kissing a different set of lips.
Now that she has some prospects thanks to my outstanding methods of reeling in chicks from the online WSW community, we discussed her next steps in a recent Gchat.
Razzy: dudeI figured there had to be something on the internets to provide simple, coherent instructions to convince Twathopper that cunnilingus is easy and fun. Sure enough, a quick Google search of "lesbian sex how-to" turned up some helpful sites.
Razzy: how is the solstice dating circuit treating you???
Twathopper: dude
Razzy: have you l'd any p yet???
Twathopper: i haven't l'd any p yet no not yet
Twathopper: but i did make out again
Razzy: well that's a start
Razzy: with the social worker? [RAZZY Note: We call this bitch either "social worker"--as that is her job--or "Sarah Babysits," because until Twathopper pimped up her texting game that was what she was always doing instead of getting busy with Twathopper.]
Twathopper: so i've got the making out down i think now
Twathopper: we'll see on friday i guess
Razzy: OOOOOOO, date?!?!
Twathopper: yes date on fri- she's staying over i think
Razzy: you better go dildo shopping thursday then!
Razzy: and trim those nails!
Twathopper: hahaha
Razzy: and shave your snatch--i totz hate getting a huge faceful of bush
Twathopper: i really have to trim my nails?
Razzy: YES
Razzy: YES
Razzy: YES
Twathopper: my snatch is always shaved
Razzy: i cannot emphasize that enough
Razzy: there is nothing
Razzy: NOTHING
Razzy: worse than getting FB'd by a chick with long nails
Razzy: ouch
Razzy: every time i see that in porn i just CRINGE
Razzy: i mean, you do know that you don't just like stick your finger straight in there, right?
Razzy: you want to do more of a beckoning motion
Twathopper: yes that i know
Razzy: that is ouchy with long nails
Razzy: i have had lots of stern conversations with my special GF about that
Twathopper: and i guess it would hurt the little guy too
Razzy: thank god she got the message
Razzy: i mean you can get away with it if you stick to external action only
Razzy: but who wants to limit herself in the sack?
Twathopper: i love my nails!
Razzy: well, learn to love celibacy then, because you ain't scoring repeat pussy with long nails
Twathopper: i'm also kinda hoping that maybe i can just follow her lead
Twathopper: or maybe just let her do all the stuff the first time- ha!
Razzy: NO!
Razzy: come on dude
Razzy: just because you are an amateur lez doesn't mean you have to act like it
Twathopper: ohh good point
Razzy: just get on in there and start working on your technique
Twathopper: yeah
Twathopper: but it's gonna be hard to l some p the very first time
Twathopper: maybe i'll just stick with hands
Twathopper: that i can handle
Twathopper: i mean i know i can handle that, the L'n P might be too much off the bat
Razzy: L'n p is easy
Razzy: http://people.ucsc.edu/~aaarons/lesbiansex101.htmlIt seems this fabled Friday sleepover date with Sarah Babysits last Friday was rescheduled for tonight, so to save Twathopper the trouble of digging through her Gchats archives for instructions on how to properly perform oral on a woman, she can just make her usual morning pitstop at RAZZY.org for the links. I'm just getting misty-eyed with pride about the prospect of Twathopper taking the final step to being "legit" and scoring some actual vagina. I can just picture the scene now. After huffing and puffing up the six flights of stairs one has to ascend to reach Twathopper's apartment, they'll pop in one of her old "Buffy" DVDs and put it on mute, crank the Tori Amos, light a few scented candles, and start the foreplay with a couple steaming mugs of chamomile and some intimate conversation about each other's emotions. Then a little light hand-holding will turn into awkward kissing which will turn into boobmashing which will turn into my little Twathopper flowering into the mature lesbian that she is like a lily in a Georgia O'Keefe painting. Blessed be. Go with Goddess, Twathopper! L that P!
Razzy: see? just go for the clit
Razzy: not too challenging
Razzy: ignore that last tip about not forgetting to cuddle
Twathopper: omg- i'm reading this and dying
Razzy: well, i guess you shouldn't ignore the cuddling part since sarah babysits seems mad solstice
Razzy: unlike me, she probably would have issues if she likened her partner to a hetero dude who just wants to roll over and go to sleep
Razzy: i have zero problem with that, or with being compared to a hetero dude myself
Twathopper: she is mad solstice
Razzy: here's another how-to site
Razzy: (and check the crusty-ass dyke who authored this...Kathy BELGE...REALLY?):
Razzy: http://lesbianlife.about.com/b/2005/08/16/lesbian-sex-tip-cunnilingus.htm
Twathopper: omg- w hat a huge lez!
Razzy: seriously
Razzy: she's totz captain of her softball team
Twathopper: for reals
Twathopper: and it seems she knows what she's talking about
Razzy: yes i get the feeling she does
Razzy: she's probably one of those anti-penetration lezzies
Razzy: who doesn't dig the strap-on
Razzy: obviously i have no problem involving dude-type stuff in my hot girl-on-girl
Razzy: including an actual dude
Twathopper: well i'm gonna need something b/c i know oral and fingers ain't gonna cut it
Razzy: but there's a lot of dykes who don't want anything slightly penis-y with their sex
Twathopper: lame
Razzy: need something? like a strap-on?
Razzy: go to fantasy world and pick one up
Razzy: or go to adamandeve.com
Razzy: they send you a free porn with sex toy orders
Razzy: that's where I bought my strap-on
Twathopper: wow i MUST save this chat b/c it will certainly come in handy in the future
Razzy: and 2-sided dildo
Razzy: i'll publish it on my blog
Twathopper: i'm gonna go have to read those things again on friday
Twathopper: but you smith chicks have made it much easier
Razzy: before you know it you'll be taking pictures of yourself running around in nothing but your harness like me
Twathopper: particularly you and jerseygirl
Twathopper: soooo thanks dude.
Razzy: no prob dude
Razzy: i didn't have a lesbian mentor when i was 15
Razzy: i had to learn the hard way
Razzy: so i'm happy to save you the trouble
Labels: correspondence, lezbollah, sex, Twathopper
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Tom Brady's leg
DOB: August 3, 1977
Occupation: slightly limping
Hometown: San Mateo, California
Current residence: gently practicing in Phoenix, Arizona
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Tom Brady's leg over the past week has demonstrated the most attractive feature it ever could possibly have: a slight limp. Tom was spotted strolling around with some ugly flowers for Gisele last week here in the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam with a walking boot on his ouchie ankle (while rocking his designer metrosexual casual wear to the effect of looking like a grade A tool, I might add). Since then, speculation has been rampant about the severity of the high minor ankle sprain he sustained during the AFC Championship game.
Unfortunately, the grand dreams I initially had of Brady being felled prior to the Super Bowl and the Patriots losing thanks to their offense being put into the clumsy hands of Matt Cassel (who thus far has attempted a meager seven passes in six games this season) were shattered when he showed up to a press conference and vowed to return the Lombardi trophy to Foxborough. However, there is still a glimmer of hope that Brady will fuck up bad, thus causing the Patriots to get totally spanked by the Giants defense this Sunday. Apparently, his ankle is still tender and he's only barely been practicing. I am thus cautiously optimistic that Mr. Perfect will hobble out onto the field Sunday and get promptly owned. If all goes well, the last thing he'll see before his ankle totally gives up and the Patriots see their perfect season go to shit is Michael Strahan's diastema bearing down on his bitch ass.
So keep up the good work, Tom Brady's ankle! All of us who hate the Patriots are counting on you.
Labels: Assachusetts, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, NFL football
Daily Douchebag: Hayden Panettiere AGAIN
DOB: August 21, 1989
Occupation: actress, skank, obnoxious pro-whale zealot
Hometown: Palisades, New York
Current residence: getting her activist media ho on--anywhere there's an interview or someone with a camera and a YouTube account
Douchebaggery: A few months back, LL Cool Jew suggested that Hayden Panettiere get out of the whale-saving business and "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" and/or "admit you’re a lesbian, because I know from experience that only honey-lovers dig on whales as much as you clearly do." Instead of heeding LL Cool Jew's wise words, Hayden decided to stick with her save-the-whales routine, and that's where shit got personal between the two of us.
If you read her sweatshirt closely in the above photograph, you'll notice that it instructs the reader to "boycott Japanese, Icelandic, and Norwegian goods." NORWEGIAN goods?! As in my ancestral fatherland? Are you kidding me, bitch? If you think I'm going to quit buying the occasional painted lefse stick or the odd Christmas tin of pickled herring, you are insane.
Being that my Nordic fatherland is kicking it somewhere in the neighborhood of the Arctic Circle, there aren't a lot of resources available. Whales are one of Scandinavia's few natural resources which can be exploited for commercial advantage, besides fucking reindeer, scratchy wool sweaters, and smoked fishes. So Hayden needs to mind her own business about Norway's fishing industry. They're just trying to make that money where they can. Yes, there's an international moratorium on whaling that Norway chooses to ignore, but it's not like Norwegian fisherman are causing their extinction. There has never been a huge market for whale meat in Norway, and Norway only kills somewhere around 500-1500 minke whales per year as part of a centuries-old whaling tradition, according to The Whaleman Foundation (Hayden's whale saving group of choice). Considering there are almost 200,000 minke whales swimming around the North Atlantic, and another 300,000-700,000 in the Southern hemisphere, it's not like they are going extinct from the efforts of a few random Norwegian fisherman catering to a specialty seafood market.
Furthermore, Norway has already sent several strongly worded letters of protest to the International Whaling Commission concerning the moratorium established on whaling in 1986. Norway has argued that although whaling isn't a big part of their economy, it is essential to the livelihood of some small farms and fisheries and is culturally important to coastal areas in northern Norway. Because Norway has rigorously tracked and monitored its minke whale population, they argue that it is sustainable, and although I am not a population biologist, this seems reasonable considering less than 1% of the world minke population is eliminated annually by whaling. It's not like this is 18th century Nantucket and every sperm whale in the ocean is finding itself on the business end of a harpoon; far more whales meet a natural death than one by whaleboat. Hayden needs to shut the fuck up and get back to licking random inanimate objects (ie: the Stanley Cup) and boning her overbearing 30-year-old costars, because those are the only matters she can speak of with any authority.
Hayden is especially annoying considering when she tried and failed to stop a traditional long-pole dolphin hunt in Japan a few months back, she was blubbering (pun intended) about how peaceful and cute all the soon-to-be-sushi dolphins were. She also reminded everyone that they are mammals, just like us. Well, last time I opened a book of Linnean taxonomy, the sheep that gave their lives for her hideous UGG boots were also in Order Mammalia. Rather than see her demanding we cease purchasing Australian exports on the grounds that they needlessly slaughter thousands of passive, cute, live birth-having, lactating sheep to make ugly surfer boots, Hayden just pulls on her sheepskins and lectures us about the whales with cozy feet. I guess since Hayden doesn't eat whale, it's more convenient to protest other cultures which might do so on a limited basis rather than ones that destroy thousands of innocent sheep.
She is lucky that this isn't the tenth century, because otherwise I'd settle this with her the Viking way. I'm not really sure what that is, but I would guess it means loading up a ship at Trondheim with my barbarian kinsmen and sailing up whatever fjord Hayden lives on to pillage and rape the shit out of those pikktrynes living in her village. Then we'd celebrate with a raging linje aquavit-fueled feast of minke whale. Man, I wish it was the tenth century.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, sexy delicious animals, sluts, uff da
Monday, January 28, 2008
Nothing says "murdering drug dealer" like this outfit
Meet William Torres. All I have to say is that it's a good thing Michael Kors isn't somehow involved in dispensing justice, because I can only imagine the snide remarks that would issue down from the bench to a defendant dressed like this:
He was just arrested in Allentown, Pennsylvania and charged with drug dealing and double homicide. He apparently didn't have a very high opinion of the cops' ability to catch him, because when they broke down his door and took him into custody, he didn't have time to change out of his giant fuzzy slippers. Seriously, each of those slippers looks like it should start belting out "In the ciiiiiiiircle of life, it's the wheel of fortune..."
Somehow, I don't think even the double murder rap he's facing is going to give him a lot of credibility with the hardened criminals down at the jail with that kind of footwear. Certainly if I were a violent felon looking to get my prison rape on I'd totally call first dibs on old Simba-slippers and make a beeline for the showers or the laundry room or wherever forcible sodomy between incarcerated criminals is wont to occur. I'm thinking William Torres is going to have a rough go of things if he can't post bail before his trial. Besides, it's not like those pussy feet have any air of real intimidation, like, say, THESE slippers would:
Frankly, no matter how long I'd been the slammer, I'd make a point to avoid dropping my soap anywhere near the vicinity of a dude wearing CHINGY! slippers, if only because they emit an aura of revulsion that can't be washed off.
CHONGAY CHONG, lion slippers!
Somehow, I don't think even the double murder rap he's facing is going to give him a lot of credibility with the hardened criminals down at the jail with that kind of footwear. Certainly if I were a violent felon looking to get my prison rape on I'd totally call first dibs on old Simba-slippers and make a beeline for the showers or the laundry room or wherever forcible sodomy between incarcerated criminals is wont to occur. I'm thinking William Torres is going to have a rough go of things if he can't post bail before his trial. Besides, it's not like those pussy feet have any air of real intimidation, like, say, THESE slippers would:
CHONGAY CHONG, lion slippers!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, comeuppance, crime and punishment, hilarious shit
Miss America STILL sucks
I had a very exciting weekend (read: in lab both days), and thus was able to flip to TLC on Saturday night to catch part of the Miss America pageant. I usually just stick to getting beauty pageant highlights, because those crazy bitches that compete in them are only entertaining offstage. Because Miss America has sucked for the past few decades (since its inception), their ratings have been waning, and this year they tried to "jazz" up the pageant to appeal to new audiences.
After watching five minutes of this, I deemed their effort to modernize Miss America as a total fucking failure. From what I can tell, they hired some loser from "Entertainment Tonight" (I guess Ryan Seacrest is doing Miss USA) to emcee, and put the bitches in jeans during the opening dance number. I guess jeans are an improvement from the coordinated dress outfits they used to wear during the "Parade of States" or whatever, which always looked like a Tina Knowles-designed cross between Tonya Harding's Lillehammer '94 Sergeant Pepper/disco ball skating costume and something that came out of Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan's evening formalwear closet. However, the pageant was still boring, so I flipped channels until it was time to announce the winner. I had to switch to "Rock of Love 2" reruns through the entire talent competition for fear of going murderously insane watching hookers tap dance around to appalling arrangements of Scott Joplin's jaunty ragtime favorites and listening to these broads caterwauling showtunes from yesteryear.
When I did change back to TLC for the finale and the "Here she is...Miss America" (which sounds just as not-jazzy as ever), I was disappointed to note that Miss Michigan beat out Miss Washington to win the crown. Miss Michigan looks just as boring as Miss America always does:
I mean, I'm sure she is a fucking lunatic off the stage. She has crazy in the eyes, and you know that underneath that Barbified exterior is a ruthless psychopath. She told the press later that she's a third-generation beauty queen, validating my suspicions about her mental condition. She comes from a family of dysfunctional nutcases. Her mom is an "active volunteer" in the pageant community (translation: stage mom from hell), and I can only imagine what sort of behind-the-scenes sabotage and extortion these two employed to get their hands on the crown. Sadly, unless Miss Michigan-now-America gets into coke or something, her reign as Miss America will probably be as forgettable as all her predecessors. Clearly, the organizers of the Miss America pageant still have a lot to do in order to make this shit timely or remotely interesting. I think it's time for them to get reckless. Their first order of business should be to hire Katie Rees as the head bitch in charge. Katie Rees is a pageant alum herself, and although she was unceremoniously booted from holding the title of Miss Nevada prior to the Miss USA pageant by Donald Trump, she knows how to deliver some compelling entertainment:
Now THAT is a Miss America pageant I would glue myself to the TV for. TLC and Miss America need to seriously consider this for next year. It would be a ratings juggernaut, and Katie Rees probably needs a job. It's a win-win! Trust!
After watching five minutes of this, I deemed their effort to modernize Miss America as a total fucking failure. From what I can tell, they hired some loser from "Entertainment Tonight" (I guess Ryan Seacrest is doing Miss USA) to emcee, and put the bitches in jeans during the opening dance number. I guess jeans are an improvement from the coordinated dress outfits they used to wear during the "Parade of States" or whatever, which always looked like a Tina Knowles-designed cross between Tonya Harding's Lillehammer '94 Sergeant Pepper/disco ball skating costume and something that came out of Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan's evening formalwear closet. However, the pageant was still boring, so I flipped channels until it was time to announce the winner. I had to switch to "Rock of Love 2" reruns through the entire talent competition for fear of going murderously insane watching hookers tap dance around to appalling arrangements of Scott Joplin's jaunty ragtime favorites and listening to these broads caterwauling showtunes from yesteryear.
When I did change back to TLC for the finale and the "Here she is...Miss America" (which sounds just as not-jazzy as ever), I was disappointed to note that Miss Michigan beat out Miss Washington to win the crown. Miss Michigan looks just as boring as Miss America always does:
I mean, I'm sure she is a fucking lunatic off the stage. She has crazy in the eyes, and you know that underneath that Barbified exterior is a ruthless psychopath. She told the press later that she's a third-generation beauty queen, validating my suspicions about her mental condition. She comes from a family of dysfunctional nutcases. Her mom is an "active volunteer" in the pageant community (translation: stage mom from hell), and I can only imagine what sort of behind-the-scenes sabotage and extortion these two employed to get their hands on the crown. Sadly, unless Miss Michigan-now-America gets into coke or something, her reign as Miss America will probably be as forgettable as all her predecessors. Clearly, the organizers of the Miss America pageant still have a lot to do in order to make this shit timely or remotely interesting. I think it's time for them to get reckless. Their first order of business should be to hire Katie Rees as the head bitch in charge. Katie Rees is a pageant alum herself, and although she was unceremoniously booted from holding the title of Miss Nevada prior to the Miss USA pageant by Donald Trump, she knows how to deliver some compelling entertainment:
Now THAT is a Miss America pageant I would glue myself to the TV for. TLC and Miss America need to seriously consider this for next year. It would be a ratings juggernaut, and Katie Rees probably needs a job. It's a win-win! Trust!
Labels: beauty queens, hot chicks, lezbollah, sluts, TV
Mary Kay started it
I was just reading the day's headlines on CNN and found an article that suggested that some states were going to crack down on the seemingly recent epidemic of teachers boning their teenaged students. I read it and got annoyed, and not only because Missouri state representative Jane Cunningham thinks she's Theodore Roosevelt:
All these other hater teachers from other states are biting Mary Kay LeTourneau and her beloved Vili Fualaau's style, and it's just not right that this groundbreaking AP investigation didn't go straight to the source and ask Governor Gregoire--or at least some no-name state legislators--what the fuck can be done about it. Washington state was the first to place a student-porking elementary school teacher in the national media spotlight, so it seems only fair that we should get interviewed first. Instead, my former state of residence gets all but ignored in favor of Governor Eliot Spitzer from my current state of residence, saying some bullshit about how teachers who bang their students will get suspended. Let me congratulate New York on its progressive reforms in the area of student-fucking consequences with a resounding DUH! That's not how you handle these situations. In Washington, we hang 'em high! Or at least make them do a few years of hard time at the Purdy Women's Correctional Facility down the highway from my parents' beach house. The point is, Washington figured out how to handle this after Mary Kay and Vili hit the news: fuck this bureaucratic credential-rules-changing bullshit and prosecute the teacher for statutory rape. Then it hits the national news, and the teacher never works again.
Even if Washington and the P-N-Dub's heroic, simple, and totally effective efforts to curb teacher-student sex did get the shaft in this investigation, at least maybe all this media attention on children effing their trusted educators will result in something undeniably positive: an excuse to show reruns of "All-American Girl: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story" on Lifetime, starring Penelope Ann Miller as MKLT. That was the best Lifetime movie ever. If anything, it shed some light as to why MKLT forsook her husband and four children to bone the overgelled and pubestachioed tween Vili Fualaau. Her husband was a dick, and she had daddy issues, and she wasn't getting any, and that Vili Fualaau was a smooth talker. He may have only been thirteen, but in the movie he was spitting some game straight out of a Billy Dee Williams Colt 45 commercial. God, I probably would have even fucked Vili Fualaau, and I hate kids! I hate kids so much I want to drop-kick them when I see them, but Vili Fualaau had something going on. He was such a pick-up artist that he could teach Robert Sylvester Kelly a thing or two about being a flirt. If Vili Fualaau in real life is anything like the stunningly accomplished actor who played him in the Lifetime movie, I can hardly blame MKLT for succumbing to his seductive wiles. Plus, he looked like he was hot in the sack. Like I said, best. Lifetime. Movie! EVER!
States get tough on classroom sexual misconductExcuse me, "Associated Press" or whatever your name is who wrote this article, but why did you only give Washington state a passing mention? There's nary a single sound bite from someone in the Dub-A about how we're cracking down on teacher molestation, and that's truly an inexcusable journalistic oversight. We started this trend! Remember these two lovebirds?
(AP) Heeding a steady drumbeat of sexual misconduct cases involving teachers, at least 15 states are now considering stronger oversight and tougher punishment for educators who take advantage of their students.
Lawmakers say they are concerned about an increasingly well-documented phenomenon: While the vast majority of America's teachers are committed professionals, there also is a persistent problem with sexual misconduct in U.S. schools.
When abuse happens, administrators too often fail to let others know about it, and too many legal loopholes let offenders stay in the classroom.
Advocates include governors, education superintendents and legislative leaders.
"We've got to be on a bully pulpit with our school districts," said Missouri state Rep. Jane Cunningham.
Cunningham's legislation would eliminate statutes of limitation for sexual misconduct, allowing victims to come forward and bring charges against abusers no matter how many years had passed since the crime.
The ideas emerging in state capitals come at a time when U.S. media have been reporting steadily on individual cases, along with more in-depth examinations of the problem.
A nationwide Associated Press investigation published in October found 2,570 educators whose teaching credentials were revoked, denied, surrendered or sanctioned from 2001 through 2005 following allegations of sexual misconduct. Experts who track sexual abuse say those cases are representative of a much deeper problem because of underreporting.
In eight states, leaders pushing changes said the AP investigation had inspired their proposals. Others said they had grown concerned from individual cases of abuse in their states, or other news reports that looked at the problem locally or in their state.
In New York, Gov. Eliot Spitzer supports automatic suspension of teachers convicted of sex crimes, which now requires lengthy hearings. In Maine, Gov. John Baldacci hopes to share the names of abusive teachers with other states, which a 1913 confidentiality law there prohibits.
In Florida, Gov. Charlie Crist endorsed federal legislation proposed by U.S. Rep. Adam Putnam, a Florida Republican, to create a national databank of abusive teachers, a hot line for complaints and federal funds for state investigators.
Some states are looking to increase penalties, expand background checks or broaden their ability to police charter schools for abuse, like Indiana, Massachusetts and Utah. Kentucky and South Carolina are considering making it illegal for teachers to have sex with older students.
Several states are tackling a major problem -- the loopholes that allow problem teachers to move from one school district to another, or from one state to another.
The AP investigation found that what education officials commonly call "passing the trash" happens when districts allow a teacher to quietly leave a school, or fail to report problems to state authorities, or fail to check with state authorities before hiring a teacher, among other glitches.
In eight states, legislators are pursuing changes to close those gaps, including California, Colorado, Florida, Minnesota, Missouri, Virginia, Washington state and West Virginia.
"Despite acts of misconduct that were threatening and dangerous in schools, there is a track record of people going on to another school district and finding employment," said Missouri state Senate President Pro Tem Michael Gibbons. "The new school district may get the truth, but they don't get the whole truth about this person's background.
They may find out the dates of service, they may find out this person was dismissed, but there really is no other information forthcoming."
His legislation aims to get school employees and districts to share all information about job-hunting teachers, including whether those educators sexually abused their students, by granting administrators civil immunity from lawsuits.
Other states approach the same problem differently. A Colorado measure being drafted would penalize school districts and state officials that fail to report problem teachers, while a West Virginia proposal would open school officials themselves to punishment. Florida would bar any confidentiality agreement between districts and teachers, and require districts to report every firing to the state.
In California, one proposal would close a loophole that bars the teacher credentialing commission from revealing the reason teachers lose their licenses if they plead no contest to an offense.
Under no contest pleas, defendants are punished as if they pleaded guilty, but retain the right to challenge the charges against them in lawsuits and other proceedings. Such deals have meant public records were unclear about why educator licenses were sanctioned in dozens of cases, the AP found.
"You should not be able to plead no contest to a sex offense just so you can continue teaching," said state Sen. Bob Margett. The measure means teachers who plead no contest would immediately lose their license, and the reason for the revocation would be public record.
Some say the latest legislation is just the beginning.
South Carolina has created a new committee of parents, teachers, social workers and prosecutors to study the problem and come back with new ideas.
Though small statistically, the number of abusive teachers is too high, South Carolina Education Superintendent Jim Rex wrote after reading the AP report.
"I am nonetheless outraged by any incident in which an adult entrusted with the care of one of South Carolina's students violates that student. The ramifications for that student, his or her family, and the community as a whole are painful and long lasting," he wrote.
In Utah, the numbers of abuses flat-out shocked state Rep. Carl Wimmer. "These things happen a lot more often than parents would think," he said. "It seems we do have an unacceptable high amount of children who get violated in the classroom. One is too many."
Even if Washington and the P-N-Dub's heroic, simple, and totally effective efforts to curb teacher-student sex did get the shaft in this investigation, at least maybe all this media attention on children effing their trusted educators will result in something undeniably positive: an excuse to show reruns of "All-American Girl: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story" on Lifetime, starring Penelope Ann Miller as MKLT. That was the best Lifetime movie ever. If anything, it shed some light as to why MKLT forsook her husband and four children to bone the overgelled and pubestachioed tween Vili Fualaau. Her husband was a dick, and she had daddy issues, and she wasn't getting any, and that Vili Fualaau was a smooth talker. He may have only been thirteen, but in the movie he was spitting some game straight out of a Billy Dee Williams Colt 45 commercial. God, I probably would have even fucked Vili Fualaau, and I hate kids! I hate kids so much I want to drop-kick them when I see them, but Vili Fualaau had something going on. He was such a pick-up artist that he could teach Robert Sylvester Kelly a thing or two about being a flirt. If Vili Fualaau in real life is anything like the stunningly accomplished actor who played him in the Lifetime movie, I can hardly blame MKLT for succumbing to his seductive wiles. Plus, he looked like he was hot in the sack. Like I said, best. Lifetime. Movie! EVER!
Labels: crime and punishment, destroy all children, P-N-Dub, politics, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sexual assault, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sergio Cool Jew-Bagel
DOB: November 2007
Occupation: being sickeningly cute
Hometown: Covington, Louisiana
Current residence: casa de Cool Jew-Bagel, New Orleans, Louisiana
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm not so sick and depraved as to be into bestiality--especially not with puppies--so I don't really want to hit Sergio, but I simply had to weigh in on how FUCKING OBSCENELY, RIDICULOUSLY CUTE LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's new puppy is. I got a call from LL Cool Jew to check my e-mail a while back, and found this letter:
Hi,
My name is Sergio, and I am the newest member of the Cool Jew-Bagel family. I weigh about 2 pounds and like my new big sister, I am a long-hair chihuahua. I am about 9 weeks old and was born in Covington, La.
Here are some pictures of me.
In the first one, I am showing my ability to mug for the camera, or at the very least be really freaked out by that giant human shoving it in my face and making funny noises.
In the second photo, my new sister is showing how excited she is to meet me.
In the third photo, I take my first bath. It sucked.
In the final photo, there I am with the scary but warm lady who keeps making coo-ing noises.
Anyway, nice to meet you! I hope you make it to New Orleans soon to see me in person.Sergio is a hot, fluffy little piece. If my apartment weren't already overrun with dogs, I'd want one of those little 2-pound feather dusters for my very own. For one thing, it would be nice to have a small dog that is actually small (versus one that weighs in at a monstrous THIRTY pounds like Chingy! the Hutt, who is presently putting my feet to sleep and snoring loud enough to sound like a fucking wood chipper...CHONGAY CHONG, Sergio!). For another, I'm just a sucker for cute puppies. I can't wait until Sergio gets to meet his Auntie Razzy. Looks like a trip to New Orleans is in my near future.
-Sergio
Labels: BigBagel, Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, the D
Daily Douchebag: Hofit Golan
DOB: ???
Occupation: media whore, fug-ass model
Hometown: somewhere in Israel
Current residence: wherever there is some shitty-ass premiere nobody cares about and she can show up looking like a Sarah Jessica Parker drag performer
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, Dlisted had some pictures up of some chick named Hofit Golan, and I was like, "who?" So I Googled her and managed to come up a long list of events she has attended--mostly premieres for movies like Fred Claus and Sleuth--and virtually no information about her at all. I finally managed to discern that she is some Israeli model, although what she has actually been paid to model for is unclear. I couldn't find any magazine photos, ads, or runway shows that she's starred it, unless the red carpet at so-and-so's cell phone launch party counts as a runway. Besides being an apparently seldom-employed model, she is also friends with Petra Nemacova (who I only know because she broke her shit in the tsunami and then spent a year fucking that loser James Blunt) and Caprice (who I only know from her appearance on "The Surreal Life"), and she likes to wear outfits that showcase her ossified snap-on tits. Seriously, do they have breast implant technology from the '80s in Israel, or what? Because while Israel has done a bang-up job stockpiling their arsenals with state-of-the-art Jericho missiles, they apparently haven't been keeping up with advances in cosmetic surgery if Hofit's cans are any indication. "Hofit"is certainly an appropriate name for this broad given that it describes the tailoring on all her dresses.
How did Hofit's modeling career take off so dramatically? I can't figure this out. Unless of course she's working as a "glamour model" AKA bitch making $50 a shoot to suck balls for a spread in Swank magazine. Somehow she winds up with her cantaloupes popping out of designer gowns attending yacht parties in Cannes, yet she looks like the unholy spawn of Tori Spelling and Linda Evans:
Anyway, in spite of exhaustive Google searching, I can't really find out anything about Hofit Golan other than she's apparently a media whore, albeit not a very good one. Sure, she has gotten her picture taken at a lot of places, but I can't even figure out how old she is, her measurements, or where in Israel she is from. Although I haven't found out enough about her to give me any sort of tangible reason to dislike her other than my preference for cleavage that lacks capsular contracture, I figured she's douchebag worthy enough for being lousy at being famous. Bitch doesn't even have a website or a MySpace page! Hofit Golan, how am I supposed to adequately make fun of you when I can't find a single website with your biography on it? If she wants to be a celebrity (as all the events she hams it up for on the red carpet implies), then homegirl needs to make it easier for bloggers to find embarrassing information about her on the internets! Jeez. Some people.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, media whores, plastic surgery, sluts, you're ugly
Friday, January 25, 2008
Daily Douchebag: people who say "Vote for Hillary" because she's a broad
DOB: various
Occupation: reminding me that I have a vagina and XX chromosomes and a pair of tits, and thus should like Hillary Clinton
Hometown: various
Current residence: various, but there's plenty in NYC
Douchebaggery: I've heard from several of my friends recently expressions of shock that I'm not into Hillary because "she's a woman." My friends aren't douchebags, but just because they are smart and I love them doesn't mean that I have to agree with them on this point. The other day I treated JerseyGirl to a lengthy oration on my grand love for John McCain and she replied, "Razzy, I like McCain, but Hillary's a woman."
I scoffed and responded, "If that's how you feel, then you should have voted for Elizabeth Dole in 2000."
JerseyGirl acknowledged that I had a point there. Now, I realize that she and LL Cool Jew, who is also a Hillary girl, like more about Mrs. Clinton than just her vagina. In fact, if her vagina were available for public scrutiny, I'm willing to bet that she wouldn't even be a contender in the race. You know Hillary's bits are wrinkly and gross. I would attribute that even more than her atrocious personality as the main factor driving her husband into the arms of many a porky skank. No, JerseyGirl and LL Cool Jew like Hillary's policies as well. I, however, do NOT.
I don't like how Hillary Clinton is going after Barack Obama, and vice versa. It makes them both look petty and ridiculous, and validates every suspicion I have that Hillary will say anything and everything to gain power. I don't like people who are disingenuous, and Hillary strikes me as extremely disingenuous. I feel like she would promise me one thing and then promise my neighbor the opposite so long as it meant we would both vote for her.
I also don't like her actual policies. She wants to spend too much money on the wrong things. For example, she busts on Bush's tax cuts but allocated millions to build a museum commemorating Woodstock. Bitch, we are in serious debt, in a money-sucking war, and about to enter a recession; we don't need to be wasting taxpayer money on hippie museums! She is basically a socialist, and has called the free-market economy "radically disruptive." Yet, while Hillary loves to talk trash about how evil capitalists have profited at the expense of the common worker's health care, she worked as a corporate lawyer for Wal-Mart and sat on their board. Slut needs to shut up about helping out the working class when she sat on the board of directors for a company whose business plan famously screws its employees out of benefits and decent wages. She's also always talking about what a great job she did with the whole health care thing when her husband the Silver Fox was in office. That's in spite of the fact that last time I checked, the state of health care in America is worse than it's ever been before. More people are uninsured, more people are denied coverage, and more people are getting repeated fucked over financially by the entire system, yet Hillary loves to pat herself on the back for having tackled it and failed miserably fifteen years ago. Hillary is a liar and a hypocrite, and I don't need her patronizingly informing me of all she's done to help out the common man--or woman.
The most glaring example, however, of why I hate Hillary is the Iraq War. Hillary is always talking about what a shitshow this thing is and how she just wants to bring everyone home right away, regardless of the consequences. However, BITCH VOTED FOR THE WAR! I don't appreciate her whining about Bush "rushing to war" when her ass voted to authorize him to do so. I also don't like that she explains her actions by whining about how Bush lied about weapons of mass destruction there (we all know that), and then proposes to just bring everyone home. I am not a fan of the Iraq War AT ALL, and I think we never should have gotten ourselves into that appalling mess. However, thanks to Senator Clinton and all our other elected legislators who voted for it, we're now stuck in it. I'm not sure what the solution is or if there is one, but I know that it is NOT just saying, "See ya, Iraq" and busting the fuck out of there. Clinton helped get us into this mess, and now she's trying to get us out by just saying, "Oops, our bad. Later, dudes! See you when you're politically stable, which will be NEVER." I do not want this prostitute managing our departure from Iraq. She didn't know what the fuck she was doing when she voted yes to war, she doesn't know what the fuck she's doing now when she's opposing it, and she is being dishonest to make up for how pathetically unqualified she is at managing the entire clusterfuck. I understand that "flip-flopping" is a normal part of politics, and there will never be a politician who has been consistent on every policy. However, the war in Iraq is probably the biggest issue to flip-flop on out there, and it's clear that her position changed solely for political reasons. I don't want a Senator who votes based on her own ambitions for power rather than the good of her constituents. I didn't vote to re-elect Hillary in 2006, and I am not voting for her for president in 2008 under any circumstances. I would seriously rather elect Mitt Romney or Mike Huckabee than Hillary Clinton.
Many people have suggested that those who oppose Hillary Clinton are doing so by judging her unfairly because she's female. I've heard a lot of commentary about how men are never criticized so harshly about their looks or their clothes, and it's just another example of how sexism is still insidiously prevalent in our society. I could care less whether or not Hillary is being judged unfairly for her vile taste in pantsuits. She is a liar, and she could be the most awe-inspiring beauty in the world and I wouldn't like her. Her vagina isn't any more important to me than John McCain's penis (although I know which one of those I'd rather be face-to-face with). I judge her on her record, which is contradictory and unsettling. Casting my vote based on her gender is just as arbitrary as not casting it based on her style choices, and I don't feel that the feminist thing to do is to make an incompetent liar the head bitch in charge of America.
Besides, hooker went to Wellesley. FUCK WELLESLEY! The first president from the Seven Sisters isn't going to be one of those sluts from the other side of Assachusetts. She's going to be a Smith College graduate. Named Razzy. She's going to never lie, wear lots of low-cut tops (which double as excellent tools for diplomacy), deliver speeches replete with plenty of what Robert Sylvester Kelly would call "real talk," reinstate the Monroe Doctrine, and invade Canada. Just kidding about that last part. I'm actually going to invade Mexico. It will solve a big chunk of our immigration problem and as an added bonus, tacos and Cuervo shots for everyone! The point is, back when I was at Smith some dumb girls would wear these shirts with former alumnae Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan on them that said, "There's got to be a better way to get a Smithie in the White House." I'll tell you what that way is. Don't vote for Hillary in 2008, and vote for Razzy in 2016 after President McCain rules America's face off for two terms! GO PIONEERS!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, feminazism, John McCain, libertarians rule, media whores, Mitt Romney, politics, President William Jefferson Clinton, scathing indictments, sluts, tyrannical rulers
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Roberta McCain
Name: Roberta Wright McCain
DOB: February 7, 1912
Occupation: hot bitch who pops off at the mouth
Hometown: Muskogee, Oklahoma
Current residence: the campaign trail, seemingly, so she's probably snuggled up in her bunk on the Straight Talk Express somewhere near Boca Raton, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Roberta McCain is the hotness known as Senator John McCain's mother. The other day she went on C-SPAN to dish about how her baby boy's presidential campaign is faring, and had some choice words for his buddies over at the Grand Old Party when asked about how much support they were giving her son.
"I don't think he has any," said Roberta. "I don't know what the base of the Repub--maybe I don't know enough about it, but I've not seen any help whatsoever."
I love how she cut herself off. I get the feeling that she was about to finish that with "I don't know that the base of the Republican party is smoking" or "I don't know what the base of the Republic party thinks with, but it sure ain't their brains" or some other curmudgeonly old lady witticism, but thought better of it when she remembered that you can't be that blunt in politics, even if you are a nonagenarian. She learned this lesson the hard way when she shot her yapper off on MSNBC last November about Mitt Romney's handling of the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics when Chris Matthews asked if she thought Romney had done much "heavy lifting for America," and suggested that Mormons were behind the ensuing bid scandals and budget deficits. Senator McCain was like, "MOOOOOOMMMM!" and then had to say that he liked Mormons just fine and wasn't blaming the angel Moroni (seriously, the main Mormon angel is named MORONI) for shady Olympics-related money matters. Check out this bitch in action. Not only does she call Mitt Romney "a Senator, uh, a Congressman, a Senat--WHATEVER," the look on Senator McCain's face is PRICELESS once she busts out "well, he's a Mormon, and the Mormons of Salt Lake City had caused that scandal." Chris Matthews can't stop laughing.
Anyway, back to her more recent C-SPAN interview. After demurely noting that the Republicans are a bunch of disloyal assholes who hate her son, Roberta then says, "Fuck it, I'm old, I'll say what I want!" Not really, but she says, that if McCain wins the nomination, "holding their nose they'll have to take him."
I love this broad. I think they should interview her every day. In past interviews, she has described herself as "too emotional," and you know she is not a bitch to trifle with. Even when John McCain returned from five years being hung on hooks from his broken arms and subjected to Deerhunter-like forms of psychological torture, she wouldn't take any crap from him. Apparently he unleashed a stream of profanity with regard to his captors, and Roberta responded that if he didn't shut up, "Johnny, I'm going to come over there and wash your mouth out with soap." Never mind that the whole washing one's mouth out threat is idle, since it creates more trouble than it solves as ingesting soap can cause diarrhea. I love that after five years living the real-life equivalent of a Missing in Action movie, John McCain's mother still won't abide by him dropping some f-bombs about the experience.
Roberta would be the world's best First Mother. You know she'd be his de facto top advisor. Last year on Mother's Day, Mom and Baby McCain went on "Meet the Press," where John said, "She is 95 years young, and is my most constant and frequent critic. And she will give me her advice and counsel quite often, and of course I love her and appreciate it." Translation: Roberta is in fucking charge. In addition to his power lesbian wife rocking her USMC and NAVY broaches, McCain is poised to put some fierce bitches in the White House if he wins. You know these ladies are really running the show:
Also, for everyone who is suggesting that John McCain is too old to be president, let me remind you that Roberta is a week shy of turning 96. She's still in overdrive and clearly has all her wits about her. Since genetics play a role in both longevity and age-related brain function, then I'm not thinking that McCain is going to croak or go senile while in office. He's going to keep rocking the house flanked by Roberta and Cindy, with Roberta wearing an impeccable Chanel suit and not giving a fuck if people don't like what she has to say. Roberta IS the Straight Talk Express. Go Team McCain!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, defiance, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, media whores, Mitt Romney, politics, sluts
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Lil' Wayne returns to the pokey
Yet again, Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter has run afoul of the law. Just several short months after his last bust for possession of guns and/or drugs, his tour bus was cruising through Arizona when he was stopped at a Border Patrol checkpoint. The dogs sniffed what turned out to be a quarter pound of weed (just a QP? That's probably like two days' supply for Tha Carter...he smokes a LOT), an ounce of cocaine (Young Jeezy's tip of keeping one's "o's rolled up in duct tape with some dirty ass clothes" doesn't fool the canine units), 41 grams of ecstasy (I guess Weezy Fuckin' Baby and Baby like to roll when they have "poker night" over at Cash Money Records), and a variety of paraphernalia (presumably rolled-up dollar bills and Lil' Wayne's glass three-footer). Needless to say, those haters arrested him. The Carter will have his day in court to determine if he's going to face charges tomorrow. In the meantime, we have yet another priceless Lil' Wayne mugshot to enjoy!
Lil' Wayne should seriously consider releasing a coffee table book of his mugshots, because he has a lot of them and they are all works of art. He always mastered assuming an expression of placid dourness. Somehow he manages to say, "well, this right here is some bullshit" while maintaining a stoic, dazed dignity. I think someone's been listening to Tyra dispense advice on "smiling with his eyes" on "America's Next Top Model!" Weezy is truly a deep soul. I always learn something new about Lil' Wayne from every shoot with a police photographer. For example, I never noticed that fleur-de-lis tat on his cheek, but it makes sense, as he is a player from the 'Nolia.
I also offer my congratulations on yet another illustrious achievement for Wayne's CV. Way to keep that rap sheet active and popping, dude! Mad props.
I also offer my congratulations on yet another illustrious achievement for Wayne's CV. Way to keep that rap sheet active and popping, dude! Mad props.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, hot dudes, Lil' Wayne
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Gibson
DOB: 1946
Occupation: FOX News talk show host, insensitive cad, sworn enemy of the British Broadcasting Corporation
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I used to watch FOX News a lot, because the people on it are so ridiculous. Between their whole Bush propagandist freedom schtick and their intentionally obnoxious, constantly editorializing personalities, I found FOX News to be completely hilarious. However, that got tired after awhile. You can only watch Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter giving each other palpable fuck-me eyes while spouting a steady stream of outrageous asshole gibberish for so long before you decide to see if Bravo is showing any episodes of "Project Runway" that you've seen five times already.
When I do watch FOX, I usually skip right past "The Big Story," because John Gibson is boring as well as boorish, and he looks like the villain in a bad Lifetime movie. I could see him playing a child-molesting stepfather or a date-raping corrupt city councilman opposite the survivor-victim female protagonist portrayed by Rena Sofer or Rebecca Gayheart. Every once in a while, Gibson produces some extreme assholery, like his crusade against those damn America-hating foreigners at the BBC or his wishing for "another 9/11" to galvanize support for Bush and the Iraq war. Most of the time, however, he creeps me out, so I don't watch his show, and I sure as shit don't listen to his radio program. Besides, I'm more into the hotness that is Shepard Smith.
Anyway, John Gibson had one of his rare moments of achievements in being a dick yesterday when he started going off on Heath Ledger. He mocked him with audio clips of the infamous "I don't know how to quit you" and came up with a few theories about why Heath Ledger made such an early departure from this mortal coil. This created some controversy, because apparently making fun of Heath Ledger is off-limits now that he's no longer with us, and because making fun of gay movie characters sounds like homophobia to idiots. Frankly, I would be more upset about the fact that the Reverend Fred Phelps is taking his "GOD HATES FAGS" signs down under to picket Heath's funeral because, according to Westboro Baptist Church spokeswhore Shirley Phelps-Roper, "he got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it’s OK to be gay." Their press release describes Brokeback Mountain as a "sordid, tacky bucket of slime seasoned with vomit" and "He (God) hates all persons having anything whatsoever to do with it." They also add, "Heath Ledger thought it was great fun defying God Almighty and His plain word; to wit: God Hates Fags! & Fag-Enablers!... Heath Ledger is now in Hell, and has begun serving his eternal sentence there - beside which, nothing else about Heath Ledger is relevant or consequential." Now once I got to the "seasoned with vomit" part I said, "A-HA! Homophobia alert!" Actually, that happened when I went to the URL godhatesfags.com. The Westboro Baptist Church thinks Heath is currently roasting over an eternal flame at the business end of a pitchfork for being a "fag-enabler," and I'm going to call a spade a spade and say that the Phelpses are indeed homophobic. I don't really think that making fun of scenes from Brokeback Mountain on a FOX News radio show necessarily is the same thing, but you can decide for yourself.
Perez Hilton is incensed about this--because he does SUCH a service for the gays by being the most annoying queen in the history of Manic Panic hair dye and other brightly colored accessories for plumage enhancement and outing every celebrity he can think of who MIGHT be hitting it on the same-sex tip because they don't deserve private lives--and provided this synopsis of Gibson's insensitive eulogizing of Heath Ledger:
Playing an audio clip of the iconic quote, 'I wish I knew how to quit you' from Ledger’s gay romance movie Brokeback Mountain, Gibson disdainfully quipped, 'Well, he found out how to quit you.' Laughing, Gibson then played another clip from Brokeback Mountain in which Ledger said, 'We’re dead,' followed by his own, mocking 'We’re dead' before playing the clip again."I think this is actually kind of funny, at least the part about John Edwards and speculation about Heath's portfolio taking a dive down on Wall Street. Tasteless, maybe, but COME ON. It's Heath Ledger! Who cares? I know Heath Ledger's death was surprising and a big tragedy and everyone is devastated and he was talented and blah blah blah, but this is Heath Ledger, not fucking JFK. Heath Ledger from 10 Things I Hate About You (filmed in Tacoma, WA!) and the appalling two hour movie rendition of a Medieval Times matinee jousting showcase known as A Knight's Tale. Okay, so Brokeback Mountain was fine, but still...Heath Ledger didn't end the damn Cold War or broker peace or invent a vaccine or get Africa out of debt or do anything besides convince everyone that he was a gay cowboy and not an Australian Johnny Depp wannabe hipster, knock up that chick from "Dawson's Creek," and move to Brooklyn. It's not like making a couple dumb splices of a memorable scene from Brokeback Mountain is the equivalent of making fun of Holocaust survivors or something really loathsome and inexcusable.
Gibson called Ledger a "weirdo" with a "serious drug problem" and suggested that Ledger killed himself because he had "a serious position in the (stock) market" or perhaps "watched the Clinton-Obama debate last night. I think he was an Edwards guy, cause he saw his Edwards guy was just completely irrelevant."
Besides, this is FOX NEWS! How can anyone get mad about something a FOX host says that is crass or offensive? That describes virtually ALL of their programming. John Gibson was just doing his damn job: reporting unsubstantiated sensationalist facts and being an asshole. I applaud him for having such a high standard for professionalism. I also am glad SOMEONE is trying to be funny about Heath Ledger, because if I have to read one more breaking story about how Heath Ledger liked his coffee or how he helped some dumbass change a tire once or how John Travolta had a huge hard-on for him, I'm going to go crazy. I get it. Heath Ledger was nice. It's sad that he's dead. That's a downer, so why not try to add some levity with a couple mean-spirited jokes? Good show, John Gibson. You may not have much class, but at least your black heart is in the right place.
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, media whores, movies, people who died, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Daily Douchebag: Gayelle
Alias: Sapphysapphian
DOB: 2007
Occupation: the new, more confusing "lesbian"
Hometown: the galaxy of Gayelles
Current residence: the obscure internets
Douchebaggery: The dumb bitches who run sapphicchic.com have decided to create a website "built to catalyze a movement, a movement to define gay-females with an alternative-and-untainted-term; a new word, which is representative of an evolved society and a different time, an ultramodern and progressive one in which a free people, no longer support and or tolerate, the repressive attitudes and derogatory language that has become associated with words such as lesbian." Wait, how is "lesbian" associated with "repressive attitudes" and "derogatory language"? I like "lesbian" and all linguistic derivatives. Lesbian makes for some great language: lez, lesbo, lezbot, lezzie, lezbionic, leztastic, lesbadar, lezbollah, etc. I love the word "lesbian," and, despite the efforts of Rosie O'Donnell and every fat, crusty bitch who ever got her self-righteousness on at Smith's efforts to the contrary, I don't associate it with "repressive attitudes." I associate "lesbian" with hot girl-on-girl action! I definitely do NOT associate this "gayelle" crap with hot snatch-licking and hilarious word truncations. I associate "gayelle" with a bunch of hippie-dippy old dykes with nothing better to do than sit around drinking tea, deconstructing language, and inventing new things to get pissed about out of boredom Validating my suspicions are a series of essays, poems, and tedious short fiction about the genesis of the gayelle movement--if you can call a couple of fugly old bitches in batik skirts listening to Dar Williams and inventing new ways to be ridiculously pretentious about nothing a "movement."
The motivation that inspired the creation of a new word, meaning gay and female, is a long-standing and persistent distaste for the word lesbian. The invention of “gayelle” is with the idea and hope that it will have a worldwide appeal, and ultimately, supersede the word lesbian; a suitable replacement is necessary for positive language and the healthy self-esteem of the gay-female-population.First off, "gayelle" does NOT have worldwide appeal. Gayelle doesn't do a damn thing for my self-esteem, and I don't know any lesbians who think it would be cooler to call themselves gayelles. I think "fagette" would have been a better choice, both because it doesn't sound--for lack of a better term--completely fucking gay, but it has a better ring to it. It's catchier.
The word lesbian is antiquated; it is not representative of modern times, and or, of persons with modern views. Lesbian does not sound cheerful and fun, nor does it mean merry, like the word gay does; rather, it sounds more like loner, loser, and less. Gay females deserve more, not less."Lesbian" may not sound cheerful or fun, but it doesn't sound like "loner, loser, and less" either. "Lesbian" makes me think of cunnilingus and hot naked tits, which makes me cheerful, sounds like fun, and implies great merrymaking. Gayelle sounds to me like "loner, loser, and less." It sounds like something a shut-in who is a loner on account of being a loser who gets less pussy than the average lesbian would come up with.
Moreover, the word lesbian is so frequently used derogatorily, that to be called a lesbian is almost tantamount to being called an offensive name. In a typical T.V.-sitcom scenario, a male character, oftentimes the lead, calls a female character who does not respond favorably to his overtures, “a lesbian,” in a disparaging tone and likewise demeanor, consistent with having the “f” word precede it as in, a “f-ing lesbian.” For this reason, especially, the word lesbian needs to be relegated to a definition that has derogatory implications, much like the words queer and faggot.Okay, dudes sometimes do call bitches lesbians when their seduction attempts fall flat, but PLEASE. These same dudes are the same ones who call guys fags right before they indiscriminately beat their asses while drunk. Trust that they won't be incorporating "gayelle" into their lexicon anytime soon, and even if they do, they'll still call you a "fucking gayelle" when you shoot down their clumsy offers of sexual congress. Which they won't give you, because you're a busted old, pucker-faced dyke with a mullet, hairy armpits, and one of those jean jackets with a corduroy collar. Fucking lesbians.
The definition of the word gay, proves that for whatever reasons, it is a term that has increasingly become associated specifically with homosexual men. Notwithstanding that, it is apparent that both genders want to reserve a word that distinguishes each from the other. Thus, it seems pragmatic to start anew by using gayelle, instead of lesbian or gay, to represent the gay-female-population.How is it pragmatic to ensure that people start adopting an entirely new made-up word? Wouldn't it just be easier to stick with lesbian? Gayelle sounds fucking stupid.
By choosing gayelle, the feminine factors in “the equation of who is gay and who is not” can reassert their interest in the word gay, as well as, assert a displeasure for the word lesbian. More importantly, however, to choose gayelle over lesbian, would demonstrate a form of action that, most assuredly, would be helpful in restoring the rightful dignity that belongs to the mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends, who have been victims of hatemongering and or a poorly-conceived joke, and or, a lack of sensitivity.Again, who is upset about the word lesbian? This is the first I've heard about the overall dissatisfaction with "lesbian." And nobody is reclaiming their lost dignity by answering to gayelle. In fact, on account of it sounding idiotic and being completely fabricated, it actually reduces whatever shreds of dignity any given humorless, uptight lesbian with a chip on her shoulder about semantics possesses.
Gayelle is the logical and reasonable alternative, in that, it contains the words gay and elle (the French pronoun for “she”). Gayelle is a word that has relevance to our time, and it’s easy to say, as in the gay-gayelle community. Unlike the capitalized form of Lesbian, which is defined “a native or inhabitant of Lesbos,” and “of or pertaining to Lesbos;” gayelle and the capitalized form Gayelle, in essence, have the same meaning.Because people often get very hung up when someone says "lesbian," as they're often confused as to whether or not you're talking about a muff diver or a Greek islander. I know that people often ask me to clarify which capitalization I would use if spelling it so they'll be able to properly distinguish what I'm talking about when I'm dishing about either box munchers or sexy locales in various classical tragedies and epics by Homer.
The choice is yours. Be hip and sapphic-chic with your preference for gayelle. Define this decade of the 21st-century with a new word and a new outlook. Go gayelle!In short, NO. I have no intention to "go gayelle." It's more sapphictarded than sapphic-chic. Sapphic chic means hot short haircuts, overly geometrical eyeglass frames, and tailored power suits, not invented words that smack of Francophilia. Even worse, I have no intention either of adopting these crusty lezbots' term for me. Apparently "bisexual" makes me sound like a hermaphrodite rather than a big perverted slut, so they've coined a new title that will ostensibly help my self-esteem: hipshe.
Hipshe? HIPSHE? The day I walk into a bar and proclaim to the assorted potential sex partners populating it, "I am Razzy, and I'm a HIPSHE! Who wants to party?" is the day that I may as well cloister myself in a convent, because I'm never getting laid again with that attitude.
A word that does not include the word “sex,” is more acceptable language for any, other than an intellectual conversation. The present vernacular “bisexual,” as a word meaning persons who are attracted to and act upon that attraction to persons of the same and opposite sex, is misuse of the word bisexual as defined, “of both sexes; hermaphrodite,” in Webster’s Dictionary, 1940.Why is not acceptable for my sexual orientation to be described using the word "sex"? That's what my bisexuality/hipsheness is all about: getting it ON! I know that I sound like an erudite, academic intellectual when I'm bragging about having threesomes, but I think that "sex" is acceptable to include in other conversations about my swinging both ways.
To label those of the above-stated orientation with a word that is synonymous with a word to distinguish one who is born with an anomalous biological condition involving the reproductive organs, is tantamount to saying that one would have to be a freak of nature to feel that sort of mixed desire. For those reasons, the word “bisexual” is a tasteless choice, and it is unfit for use in this context and in our politically – correct – society.If these bitches are going to spend all their time coming up with new words to rectify the offenses caused by terms like "lesbian" and "bisexual," they might want to brush up on their punctuating. The use of commas in this material is so egregiously incorrect that it's impossible for me to regard the authors as any kind of linguistic experts. And if they suggest that "bisexual" implies "freak of nature," then why haven't they come up with a new, more acceptable term for being tranny? I mean, I don't think that being transgendered makes someone similar to the gear-shifting mechanism of a car, but that's what "tranny" means. By the same logic, transgendered persons should get a similarly stupid word as "gayelle" or "hipshe" to describe them!
Although bisexual is now defined “3. responsive to both sexes” in American Heritage College Dictionary, 3rd edition, it is nevertheless, necessary to find and adopt a suitable replacement. A well known name from antiquity, that has become associated with a woman’s desire for another woman, is Sappho. Therefore, a word or name that brings to mind the intriguing Sappho, seems a legitimate and likely candidate. The name Sapphy could be regarded as a modern and informal form of Sappho. Sapphian looks and sounds like it could mean “like Sappho.” And sapphysapphia is a combination, beautiful to say, but arguably, a bit lengthy for our sound bite – gigabite – world. On the other hand, the thirteen – letter – five – syllable sapphysapphia is made from only six different letters; in alphabetical order they make, ahipsy (a.hip.sy), which looks and sounds close to “a hip she,” hence the creation, hipshe.Wait, I thought antiquated terms were problematic--hence the issue with lesbian. So why are these bitches suddenly dropping this crap about Sappho? And "sapphysapphian" is not "beautiful to say" unless you consider fabricated redundancy lovely. It sounds like either a she-sells-seashells-down-by-the-seashore tongue twister or the invention of a snatch who thinks she's got Dr. Henry "Indiana" Jones's academic knowledge of antiquity because someone told her that Sappho liked to write poetry about sitting on bitches' faces. I'd rather be called switchyswitchhitter. It's equally cumbersome, but certainly more clear in its meaning.
Hipshe is a logical and practical choice with which to designate those females who have the capacity and moxy to act upon an attraction to those who are biologically similar to, as well as diametrically different from, themselves. Hipshe contains the words she and he, which makes it that much more apropos. What could be better and more hip that that?! Here’s to saying, bye bye to bisexual and thank you to sapphysapphia, from whence came the hip hipshe.I can think of about ten thousand things that could be better and more hip than hipshe. If there is any word that makes getting down with both my special girlfriends and the fellas sound impossibly lame rather than hot and sexy, it's "hipshe." Hipshe doesn't suggest I have "moxy." It suggests that I'm a pain in the ass shrew more concerned with the vernacular than scoring hot pieces. Hipshe is not "logical and practical." It's the condensed homophone of another stupid, fake word nobody has ever heard of before, and it is probably the quickest means to ensuring that people think you are anything but hip. I'm not thanking any bitch for cooking up "sapphysapphia" and "hipshe" and insisting that I use this instead of "bisexual." In fact, I'm telling these hos busy inventing movements that nobody cares to join that they can shut the fuck up about what is logical and practical (like removing references to sex from discussions about sexuality). I'd rather answer to "freak" than "hipshe." "Skank," "trollop," "slut," "bitchfoxly trull" (I don't really know what that means but I read it in a history book about early America in reference to New York prostitutes working the Bowery) and "ho" would also be acceptable.
The day I hear anyone slinging terms like gayelle and hipshe is the day that I decide to embrace asexuality. I would rather never have sex again with anyone (perish the thought) than identify as a hipshe. Luckily, I don't think most of the general public is going to be swayed by the pages of piss-poor poetry (I wrote better material than that when I was fifteen, and my collected works of teenaged verse read like some unholy combination of Sylvia Plath and a Bikini Kill song on Benadryl) or short fiction they include on the site to "excite and entertain" prospective proponents of gayelle and hipshe. Somehow I don't see gayelle being on the tip of every twat-licking tongue anytime soon. Don't go gayelle!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, defiance, feminazism, lezbollah, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sex, sluts
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Not a hangover cure
And today in disgusting Chingy! news, that little asshole is making my hangover infinitely worse. I had an extra scotch or seven last night after work with J-Sexy and SisterChristian, and this morning I'm a little sluggish and nauseated. Okay, I feel like I got bukkaked by a gang of mean-spirited Johnnie Walkers. So what does my adorable, morbidly obese, grunting, gross-ass Pug do? Jumps right on my stomach, treats me to a blast of garbage breath via an arrogant yawn, glares at me obstinately, and settles down to catch some more shut-eye.
CHONGAY CHONG, hangover!
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: T-Pain
Name: Faheem Najm
DOB: June 30, 1985 (holy shit, T-Pain is only 22? I feel old.)
Occupation: second most hilarious R&B thug in the world
Hometown: Tallahassee, Florida
Current residence: Tallahassee, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While Ray J is a sad imitation of greatness, an R&B singer who does currently meet my high and exacting standards is the amazing T-Pain, AKA Teddy Bend Her Ass Down AKA the Tallahassee hero. I've liked T-Pain ever since Angie Martinez asked him if the reason he relies so heavily on his auto tuner is because he can't sing during an interview on Hot97, and T-Pain audibly scoffed at her. T-Pain is like a funny amalgam of Pac Man Jones, the Predator, and a Claire's Boutique sunglasses display. This is sort of an old video, but as I watched it while getting material with which to douchebag Ray J, I realized that much like pizza, Coca-Cola, or multiple orgasms, it never goes out of style:
In this interview, T-Pain discusses five people he would NOT like to strip for him: Oprah ("she's wrinkly"), Pamela Anderson ("same reasons" as Oprah, and "even more hair"...T-Pain does NOT with a lush head of hair because he doesn't "like hair in his mouth"), video vixen Buffie the Body (he doesn't like "Hollywood bitches"), Alicia Keys (not only does she have too much hair, she has "a lot of bones" and he's not a fan of feeling "the ass bone"), and Kim Kardashian ("not many guys can go after Ray J...the man got a huge meat, man to man, no homo...the man is swangin"). This ushers in a soliloquy about Ray J's penis size, and about how while T-Pain's "shit is wide," Ray J has "length on him."
Then T-Pain describes the five women he WOULD like to strip for him. First is some broad named Shauna ("I get some head"), Lindsay Lohan ("I just like bad bitches--she's a bad girl"), Courtney Love ("I like girls that smoke cigarettes"), Melissa Ford ("I like short girls"), and "the old Britney" ("I would definitely toss that up"). T-Pain establishes that not only is his taste in women questionable (COURTNEY LOVE?!?!?!?!), but he is the silliest, most amusing musical comedian currently in the game besides the inimitable Robert Sylvester Kelly. If T-Pain and Kells EVER tour together trust that I will be in the front row. Teddy Bend Her Ass Down is the world's second greatest.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, hot dudes, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Ray J
DOB: January 17. 1981
Occupation: singer, actor, amateur porn star, Brandy's little brother
Hometown: McComb, Mississippi
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Before Heath Ledger stole the show by dying prematurely, Ray J appeared on the scene trying so GODDAMN hard to be Robert Sylvester Kelly, it's not even funny. Many thanks go to BigBagel for alerting me to this, because Heath Ledger was even on BBC News, so you know his death was a serious, international, I-read-The Economist-and-I'm-really-really-smart kind of celebrity death. I mean, he was a monumental acting talent about to tread challenging cinematic turf that only the likes of Jack "I Willingly Fucked 'Practice'-and-not-'Twin Peaks'-era Lara Flynn Boyle" Nicholson and Cesar Romero have tread before. If it weren't for BigBagel alerting me to the REAL news story of the day, I would have completely missed it.
The REAL news story of the day, of course, is that Ray J's new video for his single "Sexy Can I" is a straight-up RIP OFF of a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly's signature style:
BigBagel asked me, "i'm curious what you think about what is an obvious attempt to ride the r-uh gravy train by ray j in his video 'sexy can i.' is it paying homage or just biting to make a buck? i can't decide." I think that Ray J's ode to strippers is a pathetic imitation of Robert Sylvester Kelly's mastery of this genre. Ray J cannot deliver lines like "make your pussy talk" with any kind of authority. Ray J could never deliver lines like "when you leave up out the room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "you're gonna trip when I show you my love jones, babe, and make the room go black" convincingly, and he needs to quit this sorry attempt at being a "R&B Thug."
And Ray J, you traded up Kim Kardashian who, despite her literally fake ass and obvious crabs, is still somehow fucking Reggie (Get in My) Bush on the regular for Whitney Houston and Lil' Kim. Despite the fact that philosophically Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones is one of my most revered heroes, I don't think that she is fuckworthy these days. Ray J makes bad moves, and you are truly in a sorry state if you trade up Kim Kardashian for Kimberly Jones as a dick depository.
From what T-Pain says, despite his diminutive stature, Ray J is "swangin," and thus could do better than these cheap stripper bitches who are grabbing bottles of champagne constantly despite the fact that nobody at this video set/party seems to be drinking. I am so unimpressed by Ray J's moves. First of all, he had the bad taste to be related to the boring, random-person-rear-ending-and-accidentally-killing snorefest named Brandy (the liquor is way cooler), and second, he has the bad taste to pull some of the worst skanks in womanizing conquest history by trading up Kim Kardashian for modern day Lil' (Not So Lil' and With Many Facial Prostheses) Kim and trying to badly emulate the R-uh in R&B.
I do NOT approve.
Labels: Daily Douchebag
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Daily Douchebag: "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 3 DVDs
DOB: December 11, 2007 (DVD release--shows originally aired in 1992-1993)
Occupation: keeping me up on a school night
Hometown: wherever the vault of classic Aaron Spelling shows is
Current residence: my and JerseyGirl's bookshelf
Douchebaggery: Normally on Mondays I go over to my friend JerseyGirl's apartment and provide her with culinary instruction. We originally started doing this on Monday nights so we could make dinner and then watch "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills," usually with Senioritis and HillsYes. Although "I Love New York 2" ended with New York embarking on the grossest relationship ever with Tailor Made and "The Hills" is between seasons so Lauren and Whitney can experience "the opportunity of a lifetime" doing their final colossal Teen Vogue intern task in Paris, we've continued our Monday night get-togethers. However, since Monday night TV is lame now that our favorite reality trash isn't on (at least until "Flavor of Love 3" starts up next month) and football season is all but over, we've decided to spend it watching the greatest show in the history of broadcast television: "Beverly Hills, 90210," baby!
Last night, despite our plan to have an "early night," we got sucked into the "Duke's Bad Boy" episode in which Brandon's addiction to betting on basketball games gets him into $1500 worth of trouble with Nat's bookie Duke. In spite of Brandon making some kind of ridiculous bet hinging on the Celtics fortunes with the West Beverly High bookie that supposedly netted him $1500, that unprofessional 17-year-old bookmaker wasn't able to pay Brandon out in time to settle his tab with Duke. Brandon ends up roughing up the high school bookie and has several memorable gambling addiction-related freakouts. The best part is at the end, when Nat pays off the bookie so Brandon doesn't get his legs broken, and sternly lectures Brandon about the dangers of gambling. It's pretty rich for Nat, a guy who once took Brandon and friends to the track so they could play the ponies and who initially introduced Brandon to his leg-breaking bookie, to lecture Brandon about staying away from the sports book. I mean, you're taking bets for your sixteen-year-old employee who CLEARLY has issues despite being repeatedly warned by the eminently wise Steve Sanders that "basketball is a sucker's bet," and then you hook him up with the bookie's number so he can make more irresponsible bets that he can't cover with his megaburger-slinging Peach Pit salary himself? Waiting until Brandon gets $1500 in the hole to get sanctimonious about it doesn't exactly speak to Nat Bussichio's surrogate fathering skills. As an added bonus, this episode features David Silver cutting his first demo tape, singing what may be the cheesiest Gollum-inspired R&B/Chinese pop song of all time, "You're So Precious to Me." I could watch David in the studio with his Casio keyboard set to the preprogrammed "Bossa Nova" beat singing, "You're so precious to me...am I preeeeeeecious to you?" all day. It's not quite as awesome as when David bridges racial tensions with the kids from Shaw High in South Central by treating the assembled students to his rap stylings and hip-hop dance moves, but "You're So Precious to Me" is some vintage David Silver hotness nonetheless.
Anyway, after JerseyGirl and I rocked our faces off with this episode, finished up dinner, and finished our six-pack, it was after midnight, and I still had to come home and finish some patent office work. I didn't turn in until around 2:30, and I'm getting too old to be pulling these kind of hours. Now, I have to present at our floor's virology data club today, and I still have some data to put together. Actually, I still have to make the entire Power Point by 12:30. I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm not in any kind of mood to discuss the shitshow that is my thesis project, and it's all Bev Niner's fault. Damn you, Bev Niner, for being so sublimely awesome that I cannot tear myself away at a reasonable hour! DAMN YOU TO HELL!
Wait, what am I saying? I'm sorry, Bev Niner! How can I stay mad at you...?
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Douchebag, JerseyGirl, TV, Vh1
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Angelique from "Rock of Love 2" AGAIN
DOB: ????
Occupation: suitor of Bret Michaels, reality whore, would-be porn star
Hometown: France?
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I must have some great porn star-dar when it comes to figuring out which of Bret Michaels's prospective girlfriends has fucked on camera before. Last season I was all about "Amateur Facial" alumna Brandi M., and now the internets tell me that my current favorite Vh1 trainwreck ho is indeed currently looking for work. Yes, Angelique, the beat down French chick who came out the gate discussing her desire to "have some zex wis Bret in zis pool" and her multiple breast augmentations is in the market for a gig in porn. She's more than happy to do "Hardcore, Boy/Girl, Print, Interracial, Boy/girl/girl, Fetish, Bondage, (No Anal ), Fetish, Solo with Toys, Girl/Girl/Girl, Blow Jobs, Boy/Boy/girl," per her website anyway (and being that this is a porn "talent agency" website, I think it's implicit that the shit is NSFW). What's with the "no anal" clause? I would think that if you're down to get gangbanged, a little garden variety sodomy would be no problem for a slag like Angelique.
And what is with Angelique's insane lips? I think the collagen factory had to put their shit on backorder once she left her surgeon's strip mall storefront, because she cleaned out their entire supply. She looks like she should be jauntily rocking a sailor hat and quacking in rage at Huey, Dewey, and Louie, not marketing her herpetic snatch to the editors of Swank and the omega-list porn webcam circuit. She looks trashy even for a low-rent porn hooker (albeit a classy, front entry-only one).
That said, she is my favorite "Rock of Love" girl. Bret Michaels was smart to keep her around for another week. He should keep her around at least until she can have some zex wis him in zis pool, because that would be interesting, and that's much better for Bret's career than actually finding some boring broad with a couple tattoos and falling in love. Well, by "interesting" I mean gross, but at least in the presumably chlorinated pool Bret would probably have some measure of protection from the vermin representing Phylum Arthropoda that I suspect are crawling all over Angelique's nether regions. It would entertain!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, porn, Rock of Love, sluts, Vh1
Monday, January 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
DOB: January 15, 1929
DOD: April 4, 1968
Occupation: minister, inspiring civil rights leader
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Current residence: a grave at the King Center in Hotlanta
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: There are a lot of reasons to like Martin Luther King. I'm a big fan of the civil rights movement, that "I Have a Dream" speech was powerful and inspiring and moving, Dr. King was a hot iconic piece in his day, and he had a sweet smooth Southern preacher voice. However, why I really want to hit that hotness is that Dr. King's dream has been expanded to mean a DAY OFF! BOOYAH!
Unfortunately, because I'm in grad school, I don't get to take today off. However, when I graduate next year and get a real job, I'll be sleeping off my hangover rather than struggling to find something to blog about besides clumsily relate how pissed off I got yesterday at the Giants fans at Josie Wood's Pub thanks to Dr. King. Thanks to Dr. King, I have a dream that next year on this day I'll be happily having dreams rather than schlepping my sorry, Bud Light-scented ass to lab. Hopefully I'll be laying in bed naked having those dreams beside Reggie (Get in My) Bush, Robert Sylvester Kelly, or some other fine, accomplished brother in a salute to Dr. King's wish for interracial harmony. Even posthumously, Dr. King provides hope of days off and sex with hot guys for me, and I have to salute him. Thank you for the dream, Dr. King.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: the New York Giants fans at Josie Wood's Pub
Name: we never got there
DOB: various
Occupation: being fucking assholes
Hometown: New York? New Jersey?
Current residence: Josie Wood's pub, the Village of the West, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Yesterday I went to watch the conference championships at my usual football bar, Josie Wood's Pub. Overall, it was not a good day for my football picks. I was obviously rooting for the Chargers since I loathe the New England Patriots more than cats, raisins, guys who push on your shoulders when they want a blow job, and the Super Bowl XL officiating crew. Since I didn't have any Chargers gear to wear, Multiple Scorgasms and I made signs on our placemats extolling the virtues of Philip Rivers et al. I discovered that I have a great talent at drawing the curvy lightning bolt that is the Chargers logo. Since everyone at the bar with the exception of my friend Neo (who managed to draw an admirable albeit effeminate Patriot on her placemat) felt similar anti-Patriot sentiments, we didn't have any problems with our fellow bar patrons based on this. Sadly, the Chargers didn't pull it off, and I knew they were doomed the moment I started thinking, "Hey, maybe they should put Billy Volek in and see if he can get the offense moving."
Unfortunately, the atmosphere of peace and camaraderie didn't last when the Giants game started. I decided to root for the Packers, just to be contrarian. Also, Multiple Scorgasms brought her cheesehead, and we had a fairly large posse of actual Packers fans rocking their green and yellow at our table, so I was more than happy to join them since there were more than enough Giants fans around. In fact, we were surrounded by them. As we drank our way through $300 of Bud Light pitchers, the shit-talking became more ferocious. The Giants fans on one side of us had brought their baby in (wearing a Manning onesie) and would hold him up to the delight of the Giants fans on the other side of us, who would shout "WE! HAVE! A! BABY!" and "CAIN! CAIN! CAIN!" (apparently that was the baby's name). Multiple Scorgasms pointed out that Cain was the bastard who killed his brother in the Bible, and I made a point to establish that they might have a baby, but I had a set of hot tits. I'm cheese and a cracker. I win again and as usual (except too bad my face is so busted in this picture)!
At one point, I got up during a commercial break in the fourth quarter to pee and the Giants fans were in the middle of a guffawing chant about the "Fudge Packers." I said, "It's funny watching a bunch of dudes, without a single woman anywhere in sight, imply that the Packers are gay." After all, those who live in latently homoerotic houses shouldn't throw stones.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" bellowed one of the drunker gentlemen there. I hurried off to the ladies room and returned in time to see the Giants kicker Lawrence Tynes miss his second field goal at the end of regulation. The Giants fans were not pleased with the cheering coming from our table, and took the opportunity to throw their beers--including the pint glasses--at us and at the ceiling above us. There was a ceiling fan that proceeded to give our entire table a beer shower. We all backed up and tried to dry ourselves off as best we could.
I thought about showing them my tits in rebuttal, but then I figured that doing so would be more like a reward for being beer-throwing assholes. I looked down at the table, saw several full pint glasses, and decided to fight Bud Light with Bud Light. I unleashed the contents of two glasses in their direction (but unlike them, I didn't throw the glasses). It was a direct hit. I felt avenged.
"FUCKIN' BITCH!" they shouted at me. Our table glared defiantly at them as they demanded we be ejected from the bar. Fortunately, I go to this bar every Sunday during football season and I'm a girl, so the owner decided to just stand in between our tables and try to maintain some kind of peace. Multiple Scorgasms and Moss were irate. My favorite waiter, Alex, brought us two complimentary pitchers to try to appease us. We settled our tab, pounded the beers, and left when Tynes finally managed to successfully kick a field goal and thus win the game a few minutes into overtime.
I'm totally annoyed that I wound up in such a situation at a bar where the inter-team rivalries usually maintain enough civility to not involve grown adults throwing engaging in a light macrobrewed American lager at each other. I was so pissed at these guys that I almost yelled "GO PATRIOTS!" as my parting shot (luckily I caught myself before those blasphemous words could escape my lips). Instead I just told Alex that I'll see him next September, and would never be tempted to do any retaliatory beer-throwing again. Rough times.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Pats, NFL football, NYC, vengeance is sweet
Friday, January 18, 2008
YESYESYESYESYESYESYES!!!!!!!!!!
Today I just saw the joyous news. Super Bowl XLII is going to be the most perfectly officiated Super Bowl in the modern history of the National Football League. YES! MIKE CAREY IS OFFICIATING THE SUPER BOWL!
We can all rest easy now knowing that nothing in Super Bowl XLII is going to be tainted by abysmally piss-poor officiating such as the shamelessly inept railroading of the Seahawks demonstrated by the disgraceful Bill Leavy and his detestable crew in Super Bowl XL. In fact, it's really a pity that the Seahawks aren't going to Super Bowl this year, because then they'd have a fair shot at winning based on superior football skills. On second thought, given the pitiful way the Seahawks performed last week against the Packers, it's probably for the best that they aren't playing the big game beneath the shrewd and eminently professional gaze of Mike Carey.
Mike Carey is going to ensure that this is the most sublimely officiated Super Bowl of all time. He will show up with his mustache impeccably trimmed, his uniform immaculate, his pants hugging his preternaturally young physique (seriously, he's almost 60). We will get to watch his beautifully choreographed, tightly executed official signals, and it will be like watching staggeringly brilliant art happen live before your eyes:
I do believe there was some illegal motion on that play! There's no disputing Mike Carey's ability to deliver a masterful penalty signal. Mike Carey sets the bar for brilliance as a technical official so damn high that God has to look up to see it. The Super Bowl referee crew is chosen based on merit, which means that Mike Carey was the highest ranked official in the entire league. When he goes into that weird instant replay curtain booth thing, one can rest assured knowing that not only will Mike Carey determine that incontrovertible visual evidence exists to reverse the call on the play, but he will do so fairly and with a crystal clear, gesture-based explanation. Super Bowl XLII is going to be a good clean game!
What's beautiful about Mike Carey is that in addition to the high professional standard he sets is that he has some style with it. Mike Carey has the precision of an atomic clock as a referee, but he also possesses an underlying smoothness that takes him from being merely an admirable professional to a veritable volcano erupting perfectly controlled rivers of molten hotness. Regardless of which teams go to the Super Bowl, the officiating will be discussed for generations at NFL ref cocktail hours and training seminars. Bang-up job, Commissioner Goodell.
Mike Carey is going to ensure that this is the most sublimely officiated Super Bowl of all time. He will show up with his mustache impeccably trimmed, his uniform immaculate, his pants hugging his preternaturally young physique (seriously, he's almost 60). We will get to watch his beautifully choreographed, tightly executed official signals, and it will be like watching staggeringly brilliant art happen live before your eyes:
What's beautiful about Mike Carey is that in addition to the high professional standard he sets is that he has some style with it. Mike Carey has the precision of an atomic clock as a referee, but he also possesses an underlying smoothness that takes him from being merely an admirable professional to a veritable volcano erupting perfectly controlled rivers of molten hotness. Regardless of which teams go to the Super Bowl, the officiating will be discussed for generations at NFL ref cocktail hours and training seminars. Bang-up job, Commissioner Goodell.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Seahawks
Daily Douchebag: Paul Soto
DOB: 1967
Occupation: collecting disability benefits and reminiscing fondly about his days as one of New York's finest
Hometown: ????
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Paul Soto was employed as a New York City police officer until 2005. That is when his weight ballooned to a massive 500 pounds (on a guy who stands 5'7"). Initially his bosses put him on desk duty since he could no longer chase criminals around. Later, he retired with a disability pension. As he was getting ready to retire, he went to see a doctor about his bum knee, and stumbled on a pallet near the doctor's office. As a result of the injury, he applied for higher-paying accidental disability pension. When the disability board denied his claim, he sued. As it turns out, the judge didn't buy any of this "knee injury" bullshit and sided with the disability board! From the greatest newspaper in the history of the printed word, the New York Post:
HE'S BIIIG BLUEAn article in the Daily News notes the humorous fact that Soto's neighbors refer to him as "Policia Gordo" and have to carry his groceries for him due to his limited mobility and respiratory problems.
QUARTER-TON COP LOSES
By DAREH GREGORIAN, MURRAY WEISS and LUCY CARNE
January 17, 2008 -- He weighs more than 500 pounds, but that wasn't enough to tip the scales of justice for ex-cop Paul Soto.
The rotund retiree lost his legal argument that it was a line-of-duty fall outside a doctor's office that cost him his NYPD career. A judge says it was actually his "morbid obesity."
"There's no dispute that [Soto] is physically incapable of performing his duties as a police officer. He is morbidly obese, suffers from narcolepsy and is hypertensive," Manhattan Supreme Court Justice Judith Gische wrote in her decision made public yesterday.
"Mr. Soto was put on desk duty for his own safety," and "was not any less able to perform his duties after the fall than he was before it."
"We're disappointed," said Soto's lawyer, Philip Seelig, who'd been fighting to get his client a big-bucks accidental disability pension from the department.
He currently receives ordinary disability retirement benefits, which pay an officer a taxable pension of half his salary. An accidental disability retirement pays a nontaxable pension of three-fourths his salary.
Seelig said his corpulent client's career came to an end in March 2005, when "he was trying to navigate around a pallet" outside of an NYPD doctor's office, fell and hurt his knee.
The pension board didn't swallow that argument, noting that he had earlier put in retirement papers claiming disabilities related to "morbid obesity."
They blamed the problems with his knee on his excessive weight - a finding Seelig said was "arbitrary and capricious." Gische found the board had weighed all the facts.
When Soto joined the force in 1993, Gische found, he weighed approximately 250 pounds. He is now 40, 5-foot-7 and over 500 pounds.
A former colleague at the 6th Precinct said Soto's gun belt was an incredible 6 feet long, and his bosses would order him to take walks around the stationhouse for his own good. They would also have other officers shadow him to make sure he didn't pick up food along the way, he said.
Another former co-worker said he was "a sweetheart of a guy" who always got Christmas gifts for the stationhouse, including a TV for the lounge. "The job was his whole family," he said.
At his East Houston Street apartment building, neighbors called him big-hearted.
"He's a very nice guy. He gives everybody chocolate at Christmas," said Natalie Nuñez, 16.
Sha right. Policia Gordo's neighbors might think he's nice enough because he thanks them after they tote around his undoubtedly large load of groceries into his apartment and gives them Christmas chocolate, but I've got his number. Paul Soto is the kind of guy who would sneak around the stationhouse eating all day instead of working on any actual law enforcement, and then when his weight ballooned, barely injure himself to get a better pension. Then, when the pension powers that be were like, "Uh, dude, you were already on your way to the knee doctor when this happened to deal with the fact that your knee was fucked up due to the crushing weight of your body," he decided to squander even more precious taxpayer money on a crybaby lawsuit.
What I take issue with is that never once does Policia Gordo suggest that maybe he could rejoin his beloved brothers in blue by LOSING WEIGHT. Instead, he feels entitled to additional benefits because somehow his morbid obesity isn't his responsibility. Because Policia Gordo had nothing to do with his body weight literally doubling since joined the force in 1993, even though he demonstrated so little self-control that other cops had to babysit him to prevent him from stuffing his face all day long. Frankly, I'm glad that a man with such a woeful ability to restrain his impulses has hung up his storied six-foot gun belt. If Policia Gordo wanted to really stay with his "family" at the 6th precinct, he could have done what the rest of us would do: join a gym, diet, and take off that extra weight. I'm sure there were other officers who would go with him to hit the weights and do some cardio. Getting fat is not an accident; it's the result of decisions the fat person makes. In Policia Gordo's case, these were decisions to make passes at the stationhouse donut box and let himself blow up like the damn Hindenburg, and then tried to blame a knee injury caused by his own mammoth size on the NYPD doctor who had some random pallet sitting around outside his office. If there's one thing New York City (and anywhere, for that matter) needs less of, it's cops who refuse to be held accountable for their own choices.
Policia Gordo just needs to sit in his apartment and get back to his stack of Totino's pizzas, and be glad that morbid obesity is considered a "disability" worthy of pension benefits at all. I don't like the idea that I am so heavily taxed (New York has a CITY income tax, as well as state and federal), and these steep taxes are levied to pay the salaries and disability benefits of lazy, culpability-dodging lardasses like Policia Gordo just because they can't say no to a meatball sub. That's bullshit.
I'm glad that Policia Gordo is still on half-salary pension benefits, because maybe now he'll be forced on the poverty diet. I can attest that a diet of bagels, kimchi ramen, cheese pizza slices, Dominican skirt steak, and Heineken works wonders for losing those pesky 10 vanity pounds. Granted, Policia Gordo would still have about 240 pounds more to go before he could fit back into his uniform blues, but every little bit is something.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, large exclamatory font, NYC, oh the horror
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Adnan Ghalib
DOB: 1972
Occupation: gold digger, paparazzo
Hometown: England?
Current residence: Malibu, California or whatever hotel the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has checked into tonight
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Adnan is living the American dream. After toiling for months as a paparazzo for the FinalPixx agency, he managed to really snare his quarry: Britney Spears. Brit-Brit took a shine to Adnan's (slightly gay) swarthy hotness and suddenly the hunter has become the hunted. Adnan can now usually be seen trying to avoid his former colleagues with Britney as they do the usual white trash publicity circuit: Chevron stations, Starbucks, and various Los Angeles-area parking lots. To show her devotion to her new man, Britney has even adopted a faux British accent, taken Adnan Mercedes shopping, and supposedly bought a pregnancy test on her and Adnan's last romantic date at a 24 hour Rite Aid store. Even better for Adnan, rumor has it that Britney wants to convert to Islam so that she and Adnan can get married, because undoubtedly Adnan is devout in his faith and only will marry a good Muslim girl. One of my friends recently sent me an e-mail commenting on Adnan's reversal of life roles, and I must say that I agree with his sentiments on the subject:
I really admire the paparazzi guy that's banging Britney Spears. More people should be talking about him -- turning from one of the people with a camera shooting Britney Spears to being shot with Britney Spears. Only in America.True that. I replied that Britney should marry him only to have her last name be "Ghraib" which I mistakenly thought was Adnan's last name until this morning when I was researching him for this post. I wish it was, because if Brit-Brit married him then her name would invoke pleasant memories of things like human rights violations and wartime prison torture by barely literate white trash. Actually, Britney isn't too far removed from PFC Lynndie England. I wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to be country cousins. It's not a stretch to imagine Britney getting up to some Geneva Convention-violating sexual humiliation:
Anyway, Adnan is making the greatest business decision of his life by sticking his dick into that nest of fake hair and french fry grease, because you know Britney's not in any kind of pre-nup signing mood. She hates legal proceedings if her custody hearings are any indication, so chances are, as soon as his divorce is finalized and he makes an honest woman out of Britney, he'll be entitled to 50%. He's just got to tough it out for a little while longer, and he's got it made. Of course, by the time Britney's done buying Slim Jims, Marb Lights, and Frappuccinos, that might be only a couple hundred grand, but still. He'll probably get a book deal and will be able to afford many more effeminate faux Pashmina scarves to keep his swarthy neck warm during late-night drug store runs. Adnan should go on Donny Deutsch's show and tell us all his brilliant entrepreneurial secrets, because his business acumen is beyond reproach.
I'd hit that, after Adnan breaks Britney's heart, cashes out, and completes his regimen of antibiotics and delousing agents. He's a hot piece.
Labels: Britney Spears, capitalism, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, PWT
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Daily Douchebag: anonymous commenter on my Shelley Lubben post from last year
DOB: anonymous
Occupation: anonymous
Hometown: anonymous
Current residence: anonymous
Douchebaggery: Normally, I don't feel the need to respond to many of the comments that get posted on my site. Even if people disagree with me or have critical things to say about me, I feel that it's only fair they get a chance to do so. After all, I'm being a blowhard asshole with strong opinions regularly on my blog, so it's fine for blowhard assholes with other perspectives to supplement my content with their point of view. Besides, I like hearing what other people have to say, and I like knowing that the work I've put into writing this is worth it, because my readers are responding to it. I also like some of the amusing insults haters have slung ("I hope you get herrpes, you hore", "always the cum dumpster, never the bride"), as they amuse me.
That said, I sometimes do feel the need to respond, usually with another comment. Occasionally, however, I feel the need to respond to criticism with a separate post, which is exactly what I am doing today. There's no reason for me to write a novel in a comment post, and since I am not particularly economical when it comes to word usage, I might as well just devote an entire post to it. Besides, since the particular comment I'm about to go off on was written last September, chances are that nobody would even notice the comment or my response to it. The comment in question just annoyed the hell out of me, and I didn't really want to let it slide into archival oblivion.
Yesterday, someone read the post I wrote douchebagging Shelley Lubben last September. Shelley Lubben is a former porn star and prostitute who found the Lord CHEESE-sauce CHRAST, and is now aggressively trying to convert current porn stars to her brand of Christianity. I took issue with some of Shelley's tactics, such as sending a sweet, sympathetic e-mail to porn star Taryn Thomas, and then, when Shelley's offer of salvation was politely declined, got ugly and threatened to start telling tales of Taryn's alleged drug use on set. I specifically mentioned that I didn't like Shelley's display of her Christian beliefs, because I doubted that Jesus "would would not choose to demonstrate compassion by responding to challenges with veiled threats of public humiliation, petty personal attacks, or a sickening sense of self-righteousness." I also added that if I ran into Shelley, I would "flash my tits at her and tell her personally what a fucking asshole I think she is. And then I'll pray for her sorry, twisted soul."
A number of Shelley's friends over the months since I wrote that have apparently stumbled upon it by Googling Shelley Lubben, and left a number of comments stating that I'm not a Christian because I'm obviously depraved, living in a fantasy land, a porn addict, full of hate, etc. I ignored all of those, because unlike Shelley and her flock, I don't feel the need to trumpet what a fabulous fucking person I am from a morally righteous perspective. Contrary to what people might think, I am actually a very moral person. For one thing, if premarital sex and getting some hot same-sex action is hellworthy, then the majority of the world should brace themselves for eternal damnation. I might have different morals than people who always talk about "morality"--for example, threesomes are just fine by me but lying to people is absolutely not--but I have morals nonetheless. That's why the most recent comment, which was left yesterday, galled me.
I haven't met any "Christians" that flash their tits and then pray. Anyone can write a blog. What have you done to help people? I am just curious.Well, I guess then you haven't met me. I do pray, and I believe that Jesus Christ was the Son of God, that he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered, died, and was buried, and that he rose again in three days in fulfillment of the scriptures. That, and all the other stuff in the Nicene Creed. I also flash my tits, and fuck girls, and fuck boys, and fuck girls and boys at the same time, and I've taped that, and I've had an abortion, and I've done a lot of other sinful things that I regret to varying degrees (ZERO regret for the sex to a bottomless well of regret about the abortion). But I believe in Jesus, and I pray for a lot of things, including forgiveness, both for myself and others. However, I don't think that just because I am a Christian it means I need to run around telling everyone else how to follow my lead in that respect, and I resent Christians like Shelley Lubben who do.
Posted by Anonymous to RazzyBlog at 1/15/2008 4:51 PM
I have this attitude about preachy Christians because JESUS had that attitude about sanctimonious dicks. Here's an excerpt from what JC himself had to say on the subject (from the King James Bible, because I am a sucker for all the "thees" and "thous" and "beholdests" that it uses liberally):
"Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye." (Matthew 7:1-5).Jesus Christ himself thought people like Shelley Lubben were fucking assholes for taking it upon themselves to decide who is right with upper management and who isn't. Maybe Shelley thinks that she took the "beam" (and by the way, ouch!) from her own eye when she quit meth and porn and is now free to run around removing other people's "motes," but I don't see how this is very righteous considering that when compassion fails, she resorts to harsh judgment and threats.
I also don't see how flashing my tits has anything to do with whether or not I am a Christian, whether or not I have a blog, or whether or not I've done anything for anybody. I don't recall Jesus saying anything about being naked or keeping your girls under wraps. I know that St. Paul was pretty specific on the subject, but he also said that women needed to be docile and subservient, and thus I take his opinions with a grain of salt. Jesus had women disciples who were prostitutes, unmarried, or otherwise living in a state of sinfulness, and he never acted like they were subservient to him, excepting one time when a broad volunteered to give him antiquity's version of a spa pedicure. I don't see how exposing my breasts is a great act of sin, unless you subscribe to the old Biblical view that women are the sneaky, paradise-ruining harbingers of perdition thanks to that bitch Eve's gullibility. And while I'm on the topic of nudity and the Genesis narrative, the fundamentalist Christians will surely recall that prior to Eve's hankering for that fateful apple, she and Adam were running around Eden butt naked. Only when original sin was conceived did they reach for the fig leaves, so one could argue that God initially intended for us to run around naked, and that clothes are the byproduct of man's sinful nature. Thus, I stand good with God in my tit-flashing practices, and as of yet, I have not been smote down for having the audacity to pray while doing so.
As for what I've done for humanity that enables me to call myself a Christian, I wouldn't count this blog as a great service to mankind. I'm glad that I amuse, entertain, and generally provide diversions to my beloved Razzyphiles. However, I don't think that reading RAZZY.org has changed anyone's life monumentally, and I don't think that Jesus gives a fuck one way or the other that I write about useless bullshit on the internets. I like to think that I live a Christian lifestyle by being compassionate (I'm actually MUCH nicer in real life than this blog might lead you to believe), by trying to be kind to people I meet in real life, and by trying to be the best person I can. I also went into the biomedical sciences so that I could improve people's lives via my work. In addition to being fascinated by their replication cycles, infectious diseases like the viruses I love and hate cause huge problems in the world and have since the origin of life. I decided to become a Ph.ake doctor specializing in this field because I thought that understanding these plagues that ravage our species might do some good as far as ameliorating the suffering, war, and poverty associated with them. I also dabble in some community service-type stuff, but I don't like to go into it, because it's fucking tacky to brag about volunteer work. If you want to do something selfless, then it's not something you should tell everyone about so you can seem like a fabulous person. You should do it just to give of yourself and ask for nothing in return, including kudos. I resent this commenter's demand that I regale them with a description of what I do to give back to the community so that I can meet their standards for what a good Christian should be, and only then have the credibility to criticize Shelley Lubben's hypocrisy. I dislike talking about myself like I'm some sort of great human being when I know that EVERY good Christian should: that I am a sinner with a LOT of problems, and I could always do more and be a better person. I don't need to be on a moral or spiritual high ground when observing that her tendency to viciously judge those people she is condescending to "help" directly contradicts the teachings of Jesus Christ, and I'm not saying that my faith or practice of Christianity is superior to Shelley's. I would be greatly remiss telling anyone that I am a better Christian than them, because how the hell do I know that? Unless Jesus cares to chime in directly, that's not a question any lowly sinner can answer. If going to church more regularly than I do makes Shelley Lubben a better Christian than myself, I'm content letting JC himself tell me so.
What I think really bothers me about this commenter is that they are insinuating that, because I have done debatably sinful things like expose my breasts, I am not a Christian. Everyone is a sinner, so why am I not a Christian just because I wear my sins on my sleeve? And why are my prayers less substantial than Shelley's as a result? Sure, I'm mean to people on my blog, but so is Shelley. At least I admit it rather than justifying it with a bunch of patronizing "hate the sin, love the sinner" bullshit. I don't think that being holier-than-thou or preachy about my faith improves my standing with the Lord, and I'd rather cloister my ass in a convent than alienate myself from my fellow man and only be accepted among like-minded Bible-thumping assholes by behaving in such a way. Besides, Jesus wasn't a dick, and he loved everyone. Even though I know I fail miserably at this quite a bit, at least I can aspire to be the same way, which is more than I can say for Shelley Lubben. She talks a good game, but the manner in which she conducts her ministry says otherwise, and I don't think that being entitled to that opinion when I'm a "worse" Christian than her is wrong. My opinion on someone else's actions doesn't make me better than her, but it also doesn't negate my faith or my ability to call myself a "Christian."
So for those of you who want to question whether or not I'm credible as a Christian, you can decide for yourself. I don't know what Jesus thinks about my flashing my tits and then praying, or whether I have done enough to help people. I like to think he thinks that tits/prayer combo rocks, and that I could always do more to help people, but at least I'm trying. I haven't been excommunicated yet (although given Benedixteen's attitudes, it may be only a matter of time), and I really do make an effort to be consistent in my faith and live a life according to my conscience. That's got to count for something. The next time someone wants to tell me how much I suck at overt piety, maybe they should worry about their own eye-beam or whatever.
Labels: correspondence, Daily Douchebag, Dear God, porn, Razzy Haters
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jenna Jameson
DOB: April 9, 1974
Occupation: retired porn star, would-be runway model, entrepreneur, skeleton
Hometown: Las Vegas, Nevada
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Or, in Jenna's case, FORMER hotness, although I have to say, she looks better than usual giving away the "Jenna Jameson Crossover Award" at the AVN Awards this year. And on an aside, I think it's a crime that Lexington Steele didn't get this award, because he is eleven inches of pure power, at least according to his website. Okay, I've seen enough of Lex Steele in action to know that both the "eleven inches" and "pure power" parts are true, and I don't know what kind of "crossover" success he's had (if any), but he is just awesome. He was robbed! But I digress.
Normally I would never have ANY desire to get anywhere near Jenna's stank twat, but I have to commend her for the controversial speech she gave. She promised us that the stars have aligned and the world can now rest easy that there is one less horror to be frightened of. In Jenna's words, "I will never spread my legs in this industry again."
How could the people in the audience boo that? I say a heartfelt YES to Jenna's retirement. In fact, she should get a lifetime achievement award for voluntarily refraining from creeping everyone out by fucking on camera. Nobody wants to see Evan Stone getting blown by the damn Crypt Keeper with bad breast implant removal scars. Back in the day, Jenna was a hot piece, but she's overdone the dieting and the facial plastic surgery, and I have ZERO desire to rub one off to that. She looks like she should be creeping about the countryside on moonless nights thirsting for the blood of virgins, not providing masturbation fodder for eager porn consumers. I salute Jenna for giving the magnanimous gift of no more naked, frightening Jenna to humanity.
Now, Jenna just needs to refrain from showcasing her breast implant removal scars at runway shows for designer sweatsuits and the world will be all set. In fact, Jenna needs to retire from appearing in public altogether. Just go home and bang Tito Ortiz and keep that grizzled visage out of the media spotlight. If Jenna does that, she'd be the Annual Dude I Want to Hit. Well, that I want to hit with a bag over her head, anyway. And over MY head. With the lights off.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, porn, you're ugly
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Kells: 1, State of Illinois: 0
As Razzy has noted previously on several occasions, I've taken a keen interest in the criminal proceedings against the Pied Piper of R&B. To that end, I google his case from time to time in order to stay abreast of the proceedings. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised to find this article headlining the results of my search this afternoon:
http://www.suntimes.com/news/metro/740134,rkelly011408.article
Apparently, Kells rolled into court this morning (looking like a modern-day Dick Diver, nonetheless!) to hear some decidedly good news: the judge just ain't having any of the weak shit put forth by the prosecution in a desperate attempt to prolong this case IN SPITE OF THE FACT THAT THE ALLEGED VICTIM DENIES BEING INVOLVED IN THE CASE. It seems that the prosecution had hoped to introduce some expert testimony from a doctor as to why a "victim" might disclaim being involved in such a situation. Sagely, the judge thought better of such a tactic and denied the request. That judge deserves to double up on a couple of dizzy kneed strippers, and if it were in his power to do so, I'm sure Kells would that dream a reality.
Today's ruling takes another step toward fulfilling my prediction for this case: Dismissal with prejudice prior to trial. It's pretty clear to me that despite the fact that she's blind, Lady Justice can always recognize and stand guard over a true player for real.
http://www.suntimes.com/news/metro/740134,rkelly011408.article
Apparently, Kells rolled into court this morning (looking like a modern-day Dick Diver, nonetheless!) to hear some decidedly good news: the judge just ain't having any of the weak shit put forth by the prosecution in a desperate attempt to prolong this case IN SPITE OF THE FACT THAT THE ALLEGED VICTIM DENIES BEING INVOLVED IN THE CASE. It seems that the prosecution had hoped to introduce some expert testimony from a doctor as to why a "victim" might disclaim being involved in such a situation. Sagely, the judge thought better of such a tactic and denied the request. That judge deserves to double up on a couple of dizzy kneed strippers, and if it were in his power to do so, I'm sure Kells would that dream a reality.
Today's ruling takes another step toward fulfilling my prediction for this case: Dismissal with prejudice prior to trial. It's pretty clear to me that despite the fact that she's blind, Lady Justice can always recognize and stand guard over a true player for real.
Labels: crime and punishment, Morrissey'sHair, Robert Sylvester Kelly
"We Are The World" can suck a fat one
Remember "We Are The World"? It was this extraordinarily cheesy song that all these celebrities of the era (ie: Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Hall and Oates, Billy Joel, Huey Lewis and the News, Cyndi Lauper, Stevie Wonder) got together and sang in the 80s, for world hunger or children or something like that. If they did it today, it would probably be for the benefit of HIV in Africa or something, but "We Are The World" was made back in the day when Reagan was in the White House and AIDS was called "gay cancer."
Well, "We Are The World" apparently inspired Bio-Rad's advertising campaign for its new thermal cyclers. What is Bio-Rad and what are thermal cyclers, you ask? Bio-Rad is a company that makes various molecular biology crap, and thermal cyclers are basically fancy, programmable heat blocks that we put tubes in to do PCR. I won't bore you with the details of PCR, except to explain that it's basically a way us lab rat losers can photocopy a piece of DNA, which we can then do all kinds of stuff with, and if you want to know more, you can read the Wikipedia page. It was invented by Kary Mullis, this crazy, brilliant, drugged-out maniac biochemist who accepted the Nobel prize he was awarded for this discovery by reciting a raunchy limerick about the nobility of Europe and tried to arrange a marriage between his son and the princess of Sweden. Kary Mullis is a hot piece. Anyway, thanks to Dr. Mullis, now every grad student in the world has to spend hours optimizing PCRs and hating life because of it. I've had such a terrible time with some of the more challenging PCRs I've done that I actually pray to a patron saint--St. PCRus--to intercede with Jesus and God on my behalf.
Supposedly, Bio-Rad's new fabulous thermal cyclers make PCR easier and for a mere few tens of thousands of dollars that our PIs (bosses) won't spend, those of us suffering in the trenches of molecular biology can reap the benefits. Bio-Rad decided to make a music video for "The PCR Song" promoting the "Scientists for Better PCR" cause:
Just mix your template with a buffer and some primers, nucleotides and polymerases too. Denaturing, annealing, and extending, well it's amazing what heating and cooling and heating will do! PCR! When you need to detect mutations. PCR! When you need to recombine. PCR! When you need to find out who the daddy is (who's your daddy?). PCR! When you need to solve a crime!
I particularly like the Stevie Wonder lookalike who sings the "Denaturing, annealing, and extending" part. That's a totally sweet vest he's rocking. Oh, and this song actually says "who's your daddy?" in reference to PCR's role in paternity testing. Awesome.
Well, "We Are The World" apparently inspired Bio-Rad's advertising campaign for its new thermal cyclers. What is Bio-Rad and what are thermal cyclers, you ask? Bio-Rad is a company that makes various molecular biology crap, and thermal cyclers are basically fancy, programmable heat blocks that we put tubes in to do PCR. I won't bore you with the details of PCR, except to explain that it's basically a way us lab rat losers can photocopy a piece of DNA, which we can then do all kinds of stuff with, and if you want to know more, you can read the Wikipedia page. It was invented by Kary Mullis, this crazy, brilliant, drugged-out maniac biochemist who accepted the Nobel prize he was awarded for this discovery by reciting a raunchy limerick about the nobility of Europe and tried to arrange a marriage between his son and the princess of Sweden. Kary Mullis is a hot piece. Anyway, thanks to Dr. Mullis, now every grad student in the world has to spend hours optimizing PCRs and hating life because of it. I've had such a terrible time with some of the more challenging PCRs I've done that I actually pray to a patron saint--St. PCRus--to intercede with Jesus and God on my behalf.
Supposedly, Bio-Rad's new fabulous thermal cyclers make PCR easier and for a mere few tens of thousands of dollars that our PIs (bosses) won't spend, those of us suffering in the trenches of molecular biology can reap the benefits. Bio-Rad decided to make a music video for "The PCR Song" promoting the "Scientists for Better PCR" cause:
Just mix your template with a buffer and some primers, nucleotides and polymerases too. Denaturing, annealing, and extending, well it's amazing what heating and cooling and heating will do! PCR! When you need to detect mutations. PCR! When you need to recombine. PCR! When you need to find out who the daddy is (who's your daddy?). PCR! When you need to solve a crime!
I particularly like the Stevie Wonder lookalike who sings the "Denaturing, annealing, and extending" part. That's a totally sweet vest he's rocking. Oh, and this song actually says "who's your daddy?" in reference to PCR's role in paternity testing. Awesome.
Labels: epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, hilarious shit, nerd alert, science
Daily Douchebag: dumbasses in Texas
DOB: various
Occupation: sittin' around starin' at the sky
Hometown: Stephenville, Texas
Current residence: Stephenville, Texas
Douchebaggery: I've always thought that people who are into UFO conspiracies and the like are pretty fucking stupid. I don't exclude the possibility of life on other planets, or the possibility that that life might develop technology enabling them to travel to earth, but the people who see a fucking plane fly by and immediately started blabbing about aliens and are either dumb or crazy or both.
Well, a new crop of these morons have popped up in Texas. This is currently CNN.com's most popular news story, indicating yet again what we already knew after George Bush was elected twice and the legendary Ms. Britney Spears was the lead newsmaker of 2007: morons abound here in the good old U.S. of A.
Texans report seeing UFOWell, let's think for a second here. One guy looked at it through his rifle scope and then compared it to reports of "big bass or big buck," another guy said he couldn't see it with binoculars., and yet another guy said it was a mile long and a half-mile wide, which would be Independence Day-esque proportions. I'm thinking these guys didn't wash their old radiators well enough before converting them into the stills they brew their moonshine in.
STEPHENVILLE, Texas (AP) -- In this farming community where nightfall usually brings clear, starry skies, residents are abuzz over reported sightings of what many believe is a UFO.
Ricky Sorrells says he saw a flat, metallic object hovering about 300 feet over a pasture behind his Texas home.
Several dozen people -- including a pilot, county constable and business owners -- say they have seen a large silent object with bright lights flying low and fast. Some reported seeing fighter jets chasing it.
"People wonder what in the world it is because this is the Bible Belt, and everyone is afraid it's the end of times," said Steve Allen, a freight company owner and pilot who said the object he saw last week was a mile long and half a mile wide. "It was positively, absolutely nothing from these parts."
While federal officials say there's a logical explanation, locals swear that it was larger, quieter, faster and lower to the ground than an airplane. They also said the object's lights changed configuration, unlike those of a plane. People in several towns who reported seeing it over several weeks have offered similar descriptions of the object.
Machinist Ricky Sorrells said friends made fun of him when he told them he saw a flat, metallic object hovering about 300 feet over a pasture behind his Dublin, Texas, home. But he decided to come forward after reading similar accounts in the Stephenville Empire-Tribune.
"You hear about big bass or big buck in the area, but this is a different deal," Sorrells said. "It feels good to hear that other people saw something, because that means I'm not crazy."
Sorrells said he has seen the object several times. He said he watched it through his rifle's telescopic lens and described it as very large and without seams, nuts or bolts.
Maj. Karl Lewis, a spokesman for the 301st Fighter Wing at the Joint Reserve Base Naval Air Station in Fort Worth, said no F-16s or other aircraft from his base were in the area the night of January 8, when most people reported the sighting.
Lewis said the object may have been an illusion caused by two commercial airplanes. Lights from the aircraft would seem unusually bright and may appear orange from the setting sun.
"I'm 90 percent sure this was an airliner," Lewis said. "With the sun's angle, it can play tricks on you."
Officials at the region's two Air Force bases -- Dyess in Abilene and Sheppard in Wichita Falls -- also said none of their aircraft were in the area last week. The Air Force no longer investigates UFOs.
One man has offered a reward for a photograph or videotape of the mysterious object.
About 200 UFO sightings are reported each month, mostly in California, Colorado and Texas, according to the Mutual UFO Network, which plans to go to the 17,000-resident town of Stephenville to investigate.
Fourteen percent of Americans polled last year by The Associated Press and Ipsos say they have seen a UFO.
Erath County Constable Lee Roy Gaitan said he first saw red glowing lights and then white flashing lights moving fast, but that even with binoculars could not see the object to which the lights were attached.
"I didn't see a flying saucer and I don't know what it was, but it wasn't an airplane, and I've never seen anything like it," Gaitan said. "I think it must be some kind of military craft -- at least I hope it was."
As far as I am concerned, UFOs should only be included in the news if they actually are aliens and if someone besides a gaping, dentally challenged, trailer-dwelling inbred tractor aficionado sees it. It seems that every time someone reports a UFO, that someone is always some sort of barely literate yokel using a lot of double negatives and regional colloquialisms. This enourages the second wave of UFO losers to come out of the woodwork: all the unemployed geeks who fancy themselves "scientists" and show up to "investigate" the "phenomenon." In reality, they are not so much using experimental methods to objectively and empirically evaluate rational hypotheses as they are wildly inventing "facts" and developing outlandish conspiracy theories about how the U.S. government is covering up some sort of devil's bargain we've made with the aliens.
Unless it has something to do with Dennis Kucinich being hilariously crazy, I don't want to see "UFOs" in my news headlines. If I want to see this kind of crap, I can watch an old "X-Files" rerun (and by the way, the possibility of the FBI actually having divisions like the one depicted on that show is a major reason why I'm a libertarian...talk about a waste of taxpayer money), not CNN. No more hicks talking about UFOs in the news!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, PWT, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Angelique from "Rock of Love 2"
Name: Angelique
DOB: ???
Occupation: stripping, having discount breast augmentation and lip plumping injections
Hometown: somewhere in France
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In case anyone is not clued into the premise of the masterpiece of "celebreality" known as Vh1's "Rock of Love 2," it's basically an effort to find a girlfriend for Poison's lead singer Bret Michaels from a cadre of washed-up musicians, strippers, and webcam whores. The girl who won the inaugural "Rock of Love," Jes, wound up hating Bret and made it sound like she was forced at gunpoint to participate, and now Vh1 is trying again to find the right girl for Bret and the ridiculous extensions that have replaced his bandana as his baldness amelioration technique of choice. Here's Vh1's unintentionally hilarious description of this show:
If there was ever any doubt about Bret Michaels' status as a Rock God, season one of Rock of Love put all those doubts to rest. The enormous success of the show proved two things: Bret continues to draw in fans by the millions -- and his appeal to women has never waned. The women who competed for Bret's heart in season one made one thing very clear from the very beginning -- they wanted Bret, and they were willing to do whatever they could to win his heart. Now, twenty new women will lay it all on the line for their chance at the ultimate rock-and-roll romance. And this time, it will be bigger and better than ever, because as any rock fan knows -- the best part of any rock-and-roll show is always the encore!In other words, this show is Bret's shot at staying relevant, as well as an excuse to treat the audience to clips of "Unskinny Bop" and "Every Rose Has its Thorn" (the go-to song of choice when Bret is tormented trying to select which slags "will face the cruel sting of elimination"). Naturally, Bret has all the tools necessary to select the beat groupie of his dreams: a fully stocked liquor cabinet, a bodyguard/butler, a pool, and a stripper pole. Too bad Bret doesn't even need to put these hookers through all the ridiculous extreme sports-based challenges, because I've already spotted the woman for him. She is French, and therefore the epitome of class and sophistication:
VH1 and 51 Minds Entertainment will give these twenty sexy, saucy ladies a chance to prove they have what it takes to win Bret's heart. After moving into a super-sized rock star mansion, the women will be put to the test. Each week, they will have to prove to Bret they are worthy of sharing his spotlight. They'll show off their own special talents, and demonstrate their mental and physical ferocity in an effort to win some much-coveted one-on-one time with Bret. Can they go all out in the high-adrenaline activities Bret loves, and still clean up for a sexy nightcap? Can they work together to protect Bret's progeny from a group of crazed super fans? And perhaps most importantly, can they fend off the fierce competition from the other women in the house also vying for Bret's attention and affection?
Girls who are successful in the challenges will reap the rewards afforded to a Rock God's companion: dates, presents and jet-setting trips that will truly embody what it means to "party like a rock star". The unfortunate women who fail to entice Bret will face the cruel sting of elimination. And as the world saw last season, the competition will be intense - because in the end, Bret will choose only one lucky lady to be his "Rock of Love".
Rock On!
Angelique doesn't rest on her laurels and let all her discount surgeon's hard work go to waste. She immediately gets busy demonstrating her talents and impeccably done physical enhancements by making herself right at home:
Okay, sing it with me...you know the words since it's been cued at least five times in this episode so far: Don't need nothin'...but a good time...how can I resist?
As the incomparable Robert Sylvester Kelly once said, "she comin' down the pole, no secret why I'm here...it's cause you keep my donk on swole." If Bret Michaels's donk is anything but "on swole" after such a performance he might want to talk to his doctor about options for managing his ED as well as his male pattern baldness.
Once bitten by the stripping bug, Angelique just can't stop. Later, Bret decides to photograph the girls, and Angelique decides that this is her chance to make a good impression.
Usually I detest all things French (except the food...I love me some cream sauces and steak au poivre), but in Angelique's case, I will make an exception. I expect her to be a beloved television personality on par with Omarosa, Tila Tequila, or even the inimitable Tiffany "New York" Pollard, at least assuming she can continue to "entice" the discriminating Mr. Michaels. Last episode she finished second-to-last, and I'm concerned that Bret's dumb ass might once again make the wrong choice. There is no better woman in this competition than Angelique. She is tres hot and sexy, and Bret would be a fool not to at least have sex wis her in zis pool.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, nudity, ridiculous absurdity, Rock of Love, sluts, Vh1
Monday, January 14, 2008
Patriots fans are dumb
No disrespect to my ex Benzo, because he is a smart guy, but Boston fans are fucking retarded. Benzo can't help being from Assachusetts, thus mandating that he will be among the obnoxious hordes emanating from that region to be bad losers and even worse winners, and he is the exception to the rule as far as the collective IQ of the New England faithful is concerned. I am convinced that Boston fans are like a bunch of bulls: big, dumb, and easily spooked to moronic, head-butting, irrational, indsicriminately ass-beating, animal anger. It is impossible to argue with them about anything, and their teams' recent confluence of dominance has made them almost incorrigible. The Sox won the World Series...AGAIN...and the Patriots went 16-0, and even the Celtics are doing well. I fear that the end times are nigh.
However, I can take heart knowing that even if the Pats defeat the vaunted San Diego Chargers next Sunday, at least the Patriots fans will continue to remind us all how stupid they are and the rest of us can laugh at their mouth-breathing idiocy. For example, look at this articulate gentleman with his snide sign gloating about how the Patriots' record should put any naysayers crowing about the whole "Spygate" business to rest (for those of you who don't follow the NFL, Patriots coach Bill Belichick got fined and busted for illegally videotaping the Jets' defensive signals earlier this season, and some have suggested that any success the Patriots have this season will always be tainted by that controversy):
An ASTERICK? Is that anything like an ASTERISK? Or maybe that's just some stupid Masshole regional pronunciation thing, like the way "Worcester" is pronounced "Woostah." I guess I shouldn't judge, since anyone whose head seems to be predominantly chin and jowls rather than actual brain-containing cranium probably didn't ace their second grade punctuation and vocabulary tests, but still. One would think that a spell-check might be advisable for someone with such a sketchy academic track record before using a complicated (for this guy, anyway) word like "asterisk" as a means of delivering his "cheaters do prosper" message.
If I'd been more on top of the questionable literacy of those hailing from Assachusetts and the other shiteous New England states (ie: CONNECTICUT, the worst state in America), I would have bet a little more carefully when I wagered Benzo that the Dolphins would beat the Patriots, and if they didn't I'd write about the Patriots' greatness and exhibit pro-Patriots sentiments on my tits. Well, they didn't (although it was a CLOSE game, if you consider a three touchdown margin to be close, and apparently only I do and only in this situation), so I had to pay up:
I should have written "PATS ROOL" on my girls instead. Every New England fan reading this probably guffawed at my shame and said, "Stupid dumb girl! She doesn't know how to spell 'ROOL'! She's stupid and dumb! Nice cans, though." Oh yeah, and that was just an excuse to show off how awesome my boobs are yet again. Not that I get many complaints about that.
Even if New England wins yet another Super Bowl title and I have to listen to the insufferable braggadocio issuing forth from every Assachusetts native crossing my path, at least I can take heart knowing that I could beat the vast majority of them in a spelling contest. Even my ex-boyfriend, Benzo, who as I said before is generally smart, has misspelled Bill Belichick's name. This other honey I boned once who is also a tremendous Pats shit-talker and whiny Boston fan (to the point where he got Sports Illustrated to take down a FanNation website entitled "Tom Brady is a fag") makes at least one spelling or grammatical error in every e-mail he's ever sent me (and that's in spite of him being a professional writer). One of my Yankee buddies from grad school who is brilliant at math and physics can't spell to save her life. And the token Boston chick in our Fantasy league, when she deigns to leave some snide remark on our league message board, should keep a dictionary handy. Okay, I'm not sure she's actually ever left a snide remark, but I bet if she did, she'd spell something wrong! HA HA, Boston, Ass! You SUCK at SPELLING!
However, I can take heart knowing that even if the Pats defeat the vaunted San Diego Chargers next Sunday, at least the Patriots fans will continue to remind us all how stupid they are and the rest of us can laugh at their mouth-breathing idiocy. For example, look at this articulate gentleman with his snide sign gloating about how the Patriots' record should put any naysayers crowing about the whole "Spygate" business to rest (for those of you who don't follow the NFL, Patriots coach Bill Belichick got fined and busted for illegally videotaping the Jets' defensive signals earlier this season, and some have suggested that any success the Patriots have this season will always be tainted by that controversy):
If I'd been more on top of the questionable literacy of those hailing from Assachusetts and the other shiteous New England states (ie: CONNECTICUT, the worst state in America), I would have bet a little more carefully when I wagered Benzo that the Dolphins would beat the Patriots, and if they didn't I'd write about the Patriots' greatness and exhibit pro-Patriots sentiments on my tits. Well, they didn't (although it was a CLOSE game, if you consider a three touchdown margin to be close, and apparently only I do and only in this situation), so I had to pay up:
I should have written "PATS ROOL" on my girls instead. Every New England fan reading this probably guffawed at my shame and said, "Stupid dumb girl! She doesn't know how to spell 'ROOL'! She's stupid and dumb! Nice cans, though." Oh yeah, and that was just an excuse to show off how awesome my boobs are yet again. Not that I get many complaints about that.Even if New England wins yet another Super Bowl title and I have to listen to the insufferable braggadocio issuing forth from every Assachusetts native crossing my path, at least I can take heart knowing that I could beat the vast majority of them in a spelling contest. Even my ex-boyfriend, Benzo, who as I said before is generally smart, has misspelled Bill Belichick's name. This other honey I boned once who is also a tremendous Pats shit-talker and whiny Boston fan (to the point where he got Sports Illustrated to take down a FanNation website entitled "Tom Brady is a fag") makes at least one spelling or grammatical error in every e-mail he's ever sent me (and that's in spite of him being a professional writer). One of my Yankee buddies from grad school who is brilliant at math and physics can't spell to save her life. And the token Boston chick in our Fantasy league, when she deigns to leave some snide remark on our league message board, should keep a dictionary handy. Okay, I'm not sure she's actually ever left a snide remark, but I bet if she did, she'd spell something wrong! HA HA, Boston, Ass! You SUCK at SPELLING!
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, fuck the Pats, grammar gestapo, NFL football, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the San Diego Chargers
Name: the San Diego Chargers
DOB: 1960
Occupation: making Peyton Manning shout "fuck!" to himself and (you know it's coming) bitch about "idiot receivers" and the "idiot defense" that couldn't contain Billy Volek, much less Philip Rivers, and hopefully next week, kicking some Patriot ass
Hometown: San Diego, California
Current residence: somewhere in Assachusetts preparing to lay waste to New England in the AFC Championship game next Sunday
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: HOLY SHIT, the Chargers were amazing. While the Seahawks game the day before was a disgraceful bore as they meekly allowed Green Bay to deliver a humiliating ass-whooping, the San Diego-Indianapolis game was an exciting, nail-biting affair in which the Chargers entire offensive second string destroyed the Colts defense.
I was worried when LaDanian Tomlinson went out at the beginning of the second quarter, and REALLY worried when Billy Volek replaced Philip Rivers at the beginning of the fourth quarter, when the Chargers were down by four. While Volek had his moments with the Titans, this season he had completed all of 3/10 passing attempts. However, Volek managed to orchestrate an 80-yard drive for a touchdown, and the Colts' last-ditch effort to save the game failed.
I've always liked the Chargers, and I've always HATED the Colts. I hate Peyton Manning. I think he's an arrogant prick who blames his own mistakes on his team and his coaches. I also have no respect for teams that play in domes. If the Packers can play all season at Lambeau, and the Patriots can play all season in Foxborough, and the Bears can play all season at Soldier Field, then Peyton Manning should be able to haul his bitch ass away from whatever Mastercard commercial he is annoying us with for a minute to expose his precious self to the elements. This is PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL, not a fucking tea party, so nut up and put on a sweater. I always think dome teams deserve to lose for being pussies and having pussy fans insistent on central heat (and yes, I know the Seahawks used to play in a dome, but they sucked during that era and besides, EVERYONE in Seattle hated the now-imploded Kingdome and couldn't wait to get out into the rain at Qwest Field).
Anyway, I was totally pissed that Peyton Manning and the Colts won the Super Bowl last year, and thus am totally thrilled that the Chargers bench taught them some humility. Now, if they can just get used to the cold, get LT and Rivers back, and keep their Goliath-slaying spirits buoyed, it's time to beat the Pats! GO BOLTS!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fuck the Mannings, fuck the Pats, I LOVE IT, NFL football
Daily Douchebag: the Seattle Seahawks
DOB: 1976
Occupation: blowing leads in playoff games
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington, because their season is over
Douchebaggery: I had really high hopes for this Saturday's NFC Divisional Playoff game between my beloved Seahawks and the Green Bay Packers. I thought for sure that our mighty Sea-Fence could shake up Brett Favre's old ass and triumph over the bastardly Packers, even if we did play at Lambeau in a snowstorm. After all, when he starts getting hurried and hassled, Favre starts throwing interceptions, and we have four dudes on our defense going to the Pro Bowl. Furthermore, Mike Holmgren knows how to coach teams to post-season wins at Lambeau since he himself was formerly the Packers' most lauded coach next to Vince Lombardi. However, my hopes were predicated entirely on the Seahawks actually showing up at Lambeau ready to give their full effort to smoting some cheesehead ruin on the mountainside, which, for whatever reason, they decided not to do.
Things were looking good in the first few minutes of the game. Seattle recovered two Packers fumbles and converted these possessions into touchdowns in the first three minutes of the game. While initially very excited, I still had a bad, bad feeling about this. After all, blowing two score leads on the road isn't anything new for the Seahawks. Sure enough, that's immediately what the Seahawks did. Green Bay scored four fucking touchdowns in the first half, rookie Ryan Grant who should have been sitting on the sidelines crying about two lost fumbles rushed for three touchdowns and over 200 yards, and Brett Favre basically did whatever the hell he wanted for the entire game, throwing three touchdowns and no interceptions. By the time the fourth quarter was winding down, Favre was throwing playful snowballs at his teammates.
If Jim Mora, Sr. were the Seahawks coach, I can only imagine what the post-game press conference would have been like. It probably would have provided material for season upon season of playoff Coors Light commercials for years to come. Certainly our offense didn't do diddley poo, and the term "coulda, woulda, shoulda" was invented to describe our defensive performance.
Excepting the first three minutes (in which, frankly, the Seahawks got lucky), the entire game was a total disgrace. I love my Seahawks, and I have high hopes that next season they'll make the offensive line acquisitions we need to actually have a running game (and also put Shaun Alexander's washed-up ass out to pasture where it belongs), shore up our defense, replace Marcus Pollard, and come back next season ready to stomp the NFC West. But even a diehard 12th man like myself can't blame this playoff loss on anything but the Seahawks deciding that they were going to put as much effort into a divisional playoff away game at possibly the most brutal road stadium in the entire National Football League as they put into their regular season losses to such storied losers as the Arizona Cardinals and the San Francisco 49ers. Certainly, I can't blame the officiating as I'm prone to doing with regard to a little game known as Super Bowl XL, as the ref was none other than the faultless, impossibly precise, mustachioed hotness known as Mike Carey. No, this loss was due to the fact that we had ZERO running game (even when Maurice Morris replaced our aging fundamentalist Christian running back), our receivers could barely catch a pass (and again, Marcus Pollard can lick my twat for dropping certain touchdowns and losing fumbles in what was the most pathetic performance of an unremarkable season), and our defense failing to stop either the Packers' receivers or their rookie running back, who should have had his face planted in the snowy turf for the majority of the game. I will place blame where blame is due, and in this case, it rests solely on the pacific blue/neon green shoulders of the Seahawks.
I'm embarrassed that the Seahawks ended their season with such a monumental whimper. Even worse, then the detestable Patriots went ahead and won, and that means I won't get to see any more of David Garrard plodding his gigantic ass around and Jack Del Rio heating up the sidelines in his sexy leather Jags jackets this season. If I hadn't watched some "Beverly Hills, 90210" with Senioritis earlier that day or gotten laid later that night, the day would have been a total loss in the awesomeness department.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, NFL football, Seahawks
Friday, January 11, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: NOBODY today
Okay, so I'm running REALLY late today and I just don't have time to write something about someone I want to bone, or who I at least want to adulate. It probably would have been Julian Peterson, but I can just save that for Monday when I gloat about how many times he sacks Brett Favre tomorrow. Sorry I haven't been as prolific as usual this week, but I've been having a lot of booze-filled nights lately and this doesn't lead to productive early morning writing. In fact, it doesn't lead to early morning anything except hitting snooze repeatedly on my alarm clock.
Last night I ate about 10,000 dumplings with KatieScarlett, and polished off a few scotches and a number of Tsingtaos, and I am currently paying the price. In fact, I've resolved to have an awesome Friday night sitting at home to give my liver a night off. So next week I'll be back on track, (slightly more) sober, and ready to rock your faces off with mind-blowingly awesome content. In the meantime, happy Friday.
Last night I ate about 10,000 dumplings with KatieScarlett, and polished off a few scotches and a number of Tsingtaos, and I am currently paying the price. In fact, I've resolved to have an awesome Friday night sitting at home to give my liver a night off. So next week I'll be back on track, (slightly more) sober, and ready to rock your faces off with mind-blowingly awesome content. In the meantime, happy Friday.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Madonna
DOB: August 16, 1958
Occupation: appallingly bad singer, even worse actress, baby thief, general thorn in the side of popular culture
Hometown: Bay City, Michigan
Current residence: London, England
Douchebaggery: InTouch Weekly reported yesterday that Madonna spends 10 grand a month on Kabbalah water, and this reminded me of exactly how much I hate Madonna. I LOATHE Madonna. I hate her the way Al Qaeda hates freedom and America, to the extent that hearing so much as five seconds from any Madonna song makes me want to strap on a belt of explosives and head straight for whoever has poor enough taste to pollute the environment with that screechy hag's musical stylings. Suicide bombing seems like a delightful alternative to that bitch's caterwauling.
Granted, there have been about ten minutes of my life where I sort of liked Madonna. When I was around ten and "Like a Prayer" came out, I liked the whole controversial Catholic school girl thing she was doing. Anything that made my polyester lloyd plaid jumper have an air of scandalous sexiness was cool with me, and Madonna really knew how to make Catholic imagery seem awesomely slutty. Even when I was a prepubescent little whippersnapper I appreciated Madonna's whole bad Catholic school girl thing. As I got older, I admired Madonna for her ability to reinvent herself, her strategic means of creating controversy, and her business savvy, even if her music wasn't my favorite thing in the world. And here ends the nice things I have to say about Madonna.
Madonna's singing voice sounds like a subway rat being tortured to death. For some reason, it was an unwritten rule that every lame bitch who went to Smith had to own a copy of The Immaculate Collection, and every time these uptight little fug muffins in their "Smith College: A Century of Women on Top" shirts would get drunk off half a shot of peach schnapps, they felt the need to crank the volume on the "Lucky Star." At my house at Smith, all the cool girls (like yours truly) lived on the second floor, where you could smoke in the hall, stay up all hours of the night carousing, have loud sex, and generally be a depraved college student. All the girls who couldn't hold their liquor, joined activist groups, claimed to be "allergic" to smoke, and liked getting offended more than anything else lived on the third floor. I always could tell the rare occasion that the third floor girls decided to unwind with a fuzzy navel because invariably I would hear the sounds of "Holiday" coupled with shrill giggling filtering down the stairwell to where I was probably taking bong hits, sucking down a PBR, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210." Usually that was the cue for me to crank my trusty Dr. Dre CD. "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks" was always an effective rebuttal to pajama-clad skanks having a Madonna dance party.
As if her repertoire of music didn't suck hard enough (and I'm not even going to MENTION what I think about Madonna's various film roles), I have ZERO patience for the persona that Madonna has evolved into. When I said two paragraphs back that I admire Madonna's ability to reinvent herself, I DO NOT admire that the personality she has settled on these days is a pompous, obnoxious cult member who fancies herself to be some kind of great international humanitarian. Madonna has gone to Israel, Malawi, and now India to basically walk around looking down her nose at everyone, posing for photo ops, and shooting her big mouth off about her thoughts on all the world's problems. Newsflash, Madonna: it takes more than a badly faked British accent to make a great statesman, and while I'm sure you think it gives you lots of diplomatic credibility, it's not going to broker peace between Israel and Palestine or halt the AIDS epidemic or whatever topic you feel like delivering a pedantic lecture about today. Furthermore, it's just insulting to be condescended to about how I'm not doing enough to correct the impoverished conditions of the country you bought your most recent child from by a woman whose monthly water bill is five figures. SHUT UP!
Also, as long as I am on the topic of Madonna's insincere fakery, I may as well break this news to her: YOU ARE NOT JEWISH! Kabbalah is basically some old Jewish book that a bunch of charlatans built a fake religion around to siphon money from idiot celebrities via the sale of overpriced pieces of red string and tap water going for $5 a bottle. It's Jew-flavored Scientology. I think people can practice whatever religion they want to (even made-up ones), but Kabbalah is a crock and a repository for assholes like Madonna who want a custom faith that allows them to speak from a platform of spiritual authority and superiority to facilitate their being even bigger assholes. I'm not impressed by her devotion to being a self-indulgent demagogue.
Madonna turns fifty this year, and thank God she's advancing into old age. While I don't expect her to gain enough wisdom from age to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up, I can at least celebrate the fact that she's that much closer to her death, an event which will mark a truly joyous occasion and a victory for humanity. Fuck Madonna.
Labels: aging, assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, retard rage, sluts
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Daily Douchebag: arbiter of "BREAKING NEWS" at CNN
DOB: ???
Occupation: deciding what is breaking news over at CNN
Current residence: Atlanta, Georgia
Douchebaggery: I love "I Love New York," and I do indeed have love for New York, but even I have to acknowledge that CNN covering rumors about whether or not she and Tailor Made are still together is out of the realm of "news." I mean, CNN is supposed to be covering bombings in Pakistan and Bill Richardson's exit from the presidential race and other serious shit, not whether New York and Tailor Made are making it work. Besides, I already know they're still together and grossing the world out with their constant public face-sucking. I don't need CNN for that!
Furthermore, besides telling me what I already know, this article reminds me of the sad reality that there are no imminent plans for "I Love New York 3"! Vh1 is going to have to think of some excuse to get New York back on TV, because she and her absurd breasts are the best thing on that channel. I am excited for "Flavor of Love 3" and "Rock of Love 2," but Vh1 just isn't complete without New York mooning her would-be paramours whenever "deep issues" come up.
And I know this is a pretty lame thing to get pissed off about, but frankly my brain isn't really working properly today because I did too much boozing last night. As far as I am concerned right now, Samuel Adams was a brewer, a patriot, and a FUCKING ASSHOLE. You know the kind of hangover where you aren't sick, but your head feels like it was filled up with molten Silly Putty? That's what's going on with me today. So forgive me for being too feeble to get incensed about anything besides CNN covering the status of New York and Tailor Made's storied relationship, and mildly incensed at that. And I fixed it, but I just spelled "incensed" incorrectly and that's when I know I should just resolve to do some more inspired blogging tomorrow. Sorry, Razzyphiles.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, I Love New York, TV, Vh1
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: arbiter of "BREAKING NEWS" at the Post
DOB: ???
Occupation: deciding what is "breaking news" over at the New York Post AKA the greatest newspaper in the history of the printed word
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm hung over from going out dranking with some friends from grad school last night and was looking for something to write about real quick. I always have trouble blogging hung over because not only do I wake up late and thus not have a lot of time to craft something exemplary of my genius, I am too uninspired to even remember my own damn name, much less opine about anything. However, thank God the Post exists!
When I cruised over to the Post's website to see what kind of silly pun was on the front page in 70-point letters (some boring shit about dudes who embezzled money earmarked for the demolition of the problematic Deutsche Bank building at Ground Zero), I actually snickered noticing that the above warning to "WATCH OUT, NEW YORK" was prominently featured, along with a flashing "BREAKING NEWS" icon.
Britney's coming to New York is "breaking news"? I mean, Britney can't make a pointless, attention-seeking trip to a gas station or a drugstore in LA without the paparazzi faithfully documenting it, but that's in California. The New York press usually just sticks to reporting when someone really makes an ass out of themselves, and Britney hasn't even managed to do that yet. I read the article, and sure enough, the sole thing Britney has done was ARRIVE here:
BRITNEY SPEARS HITS NEW YORKOkay, so she MIGHT be fleeing from an intervention, and the interveners MIGHT be plotting to have her thrown in the nuthouse, but the only real facts here are that she flew that nasty paparazzo she's boning to New Jersey and the Post is chomping at the bit to cover whatever kind of hijinks she gets up to. The Post is almost as obsessed with Britney as I and the rest of the gossip internets are. They're probably also jumping the gun and reporting Britney news before there even is Britney news, just to avoid being scooped in the awesome headline department like they were by the Daily News a few months back:
January 10, 2008 -- The Britney Spears whirlwind of craziness has touched down in New York, Splash News reported.
The popwreck jetted to the Big Apple with her new paparazzo boyfriend, Adnan Ghalib, yesterday and reported landed at Tettleboro, N.J., airport last night.
The mother-of-two and her British boytoy pair booked the private flight and left Los Angeles with one other male passenger, according to Splash News.
They were reportedly holding hands and giggling as they boarded the aircraft.
Britney fled LA after family members and professionals formed a team to get her mental help, either voluntarily or involuntarily, for treatment of what appears to be a severe bipolar disorder.
So far, the 26-year-old Toxic tar has refused to commit herself voluntarily, but the team is persisting.
Sources say they are considering "a number of options," some of which are "creative."
The most extreme option -- a last ditch effort -- is going to court and getting an order forcing Britney into in-patient treatment.
I can see why the Post is covering Britney's arrival in New York with the same sense of urgency they would use when covering a natural disaster or a terror attack. Undoubtedly she's going to do something trashy and will probably get herself banned from at least ten hotels during her stay here and ultimately will have to flee with her ugly pap boyfriend (maybe "sneak away to the Philippines" like she suggests she routinely does in her triumph of melodic sound "Piece of Me"), and it's wise of the Post to prepare its readers accordingly. Kudos, Post. Don't be too surprised when you get the nod next Pulitzer season.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, large exclamatory font, NYC
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Say hi to Benzo
So my ex-boyfriend Benzo has decided that all my pro-McCain jibber jabber earlier today was impetus enough for him to make his first contribution to this blog. Over the holidays, I told him that as long as he's going to blow up my inbox with lengthy e-mails telling me how wrong I am about my political views, he might as well share his thoughts with the internets. He feels very passionately about his beliefs, and it's always good to read someone speaking from the heart. In particular, he thinks that I'm absolutely insane to love my Straight Talk Express-riding slice of geriatric Arizona senator hotness, and has thus penned a zealous and scathing rebuttal to my McCain love-showing.
So feel free to argue with Benzo, call him a bleeding-heart liberal, bust on Hillary and Obama, etc. Leave him some comments and welcome him to the bliggity blog. And if you think he's enthusiastic about politics, for the love of God, don't get him started about the Red Sox, the Patriots, or the Celtics. His enthusiasm for Boston sports teams is so extreme that it makes him seem apolitical.
Anyway, welcome Benzo! I'm glad you are writing here, even if you're totally wrong!
XO,
Razzy
So feel free to argue with Benzo, call him a bleeding-heart liberal, bust on Hillary and Obama, etc. Leave him some comments and welcome him to the bliggity blog. And if you think he's enthusiastic about politics, for the love of God, don't get him started about the Red Sox, the Patriots, or the Celtics. His enthusiasm for Boston sports teams is so extreme that it makes him seem apolitical.
Anyway, welcome Benzo! I'm glad you are writing here, even if you're totally wrong!
XO,
Razzy
Labels: Benzo
John McCain..why?
I guess I'll never get it. What is it that makes someone like John McCain appealing? If you are a life-long Republican then it makes total sense. He basically toes the party line. He is not a maverick. He has voted for all of Bush's extreme right-wing court appointees to both the federal and supreme courts. He recently made comments to the effect that he would keep American troops present in Iraq for up to 100 years.
If you are of the very popular opinion that Bush's greatest mistake of his presidency was his decision to invade Iraq then a vote for McCain is ludicrous. He has voted for and rubber stamped every single bill that Bush has put forth on Iraq. From the invasion, to the funding, to the surge. Yes he has been critical of Rumsfeld, so what?! In the end everyone was critical of Rumsfeld. McCain is the man that had the audacity to tour Baghdad flanked by a huge military escort and declare it a "peaceful" place. Why does Hillary get the "say and do anything to get elected" label, while McCain a man once super critical of the religious right gets a pass for speaking at Liberty University.
I will admit that McCain is a very good speaker and his life story is inspiring. It is hard not to admire a POW and cancer survivor. But this election and every other one for that matter is about what the man or woman will do as President.
How different is McCain from Bush? He will appoint the same type of judges, he will continue the same foreign policy. He will continue very similar tax programs. He will continue very similar trade programs. He has the same hyper-paranoid neo-con Iran theories. His health care reform is very vague, his immigration reform is not a solution to anything. I actually appreciate his "straight talk" . I would like to thank John McCain for letting me know where he stands on the issues. The problem is that he is wrong on so many of them that I don't see the appeal. I guess he is a "maverick" when you line him up next to someone like Mike Huckabee who does not believe in the theory of evolution. I guess I should be in awe of the fact that he was one of the few Republican Senators to speak out against torture as a means of interrogation. But while he spoke out against it, he voted for many Bush appointees that advocated it. He voted for many judges that were ambiguous on the issue. He rarely stands up to his party on key issues. Maybe instead of him being so different then Hillary, he is actually the same, with a different ideology and a better game.
If you are of the very popular opinion that Bush's greatest mistake of his presidency was his decision to invade Iraq then a vote for McCain is ludicrous. He has voted for and rubber stamped every single bill that Bush has put forth on Iraq. From the invasion, to the funding, to the surge. Yes he has been critical of Rumsfeld, so what?! In the end everyone was critical of Rumsfeld. McCain is the man that had the audacity to tour Baghdad flanked by a huge military escort and declare it a "peaceful" place. Why does Hillary get the "say and do anything to get elected" label, while McCain a man once super critical of the religious right gets a pass for speaking at Liberty University.
I will admit that McCain is a very good speaker and his life story is inspiring. It is hard not to admire a POW and cancer survivor. But this election and every other one for that matter is about what the man or woman will do as President.
How different is McCain from Bush? He will appoint the same type of judges, he will continue the same foreign policy. He will continue very similar tax programs. He will continue very similar trade programs. He has the same hyper-paranoid neo-con Iran theories. His health care reform is very vague, his immigration reform is not a solution to anything. I actually appreciate his "straight talk" . I would like to thank John McCain for letting me know where he stands on the issues. The problem is that he is wrong on so many of them that I don't see the appeal. I guess he is a "maverick" when you line him up next to someone like Mike Huckabee who does not believe in the theory of evolution. I guess I should be in awe of the fact that he was one of the few Republican Senators to speak out against torture as a means of interrogation. But while he spoke out against it, he voted for many Bush appointees that advocated it. He voted for many judges that were ambiguous on the issue. He rarely stands up to his party on key issues. Maybe instead of him being so different then Hillary, he is actually the same, with a different ideology and a better game.
Labels: Benzo, John McCain, politics
Live free or Diebold: the REAL Rasmussen Reports
So my buddy LL Cool Jew is all excited about the New Hampshire primaries. She follows politics the way I follow football, and now that the playoffs/primaries have started, her Gchat status message has been along the lines of "NH Baby!" and "Iowa today!" My ex-boyfriend Benzo is also nuts about politics. Every time I even make an oblique mention of any politician, he starts firing off the lengthy e-mails and commentary. I even sent him a Blogger invite, telling him that it would just be easier if he posted his copious thoughts on being a shameless bleeding heart liberal directly on the blog. The other day, he actually sent me the a copy of one of Obama's speeches because I called him a douchebag offhand in a post I wrote hating on Iowa, and Benzo wanted to prove to me that Obama is a rousing speaker with great vision.
That may be, and the truth is I only don't like Obama because I slept with a guy whose bedroom was basically a shrine to the Obama campaign, and that guy wound up being kind of mean to me after the fact and that hurt my feelings. Therefore I associate Barack Obama with being told post-coitally that I am "nothing." Not "it was nothing" but that "you, Razzy, are nothing." WRONG! I'm not voting for that!
Benzo is right in that I am a total political cynic, because I think all politicians are douchebags and liars regardless of their party. Consequently, I have similarly irrational reasons for hating all the Democratic and Republican candidates, and I might as well share them with you so that you can make an informed decision once your state primary rolls around. I heard that there's some website called Rasmussen Reports where some asshole is throwing my totally awesome surname around in conjunction with a bunch of polls. The cable news channels are always citing each candidate's fortunes in the Rasmussen polls, and seem to regard them as the gold standard of political surveys (obviously not in small part because of the weighty authoritative credibility that a dope-ass name like Rasmussen imparts). Now, Rasmussen Reports has a lot of information about "statistical significance" and the like, but I'm thinking it's all a big scam. There can only REALLY be one Rasmussen Report of any significance about who is the front runner in each party's race for the nomination, and I'm pleased to say it's called RAZZY.org. Who needs analysis of how candidates mobilize various voter demographics via their stands on the issues when you can instead have wild speculation about their sex lives and criticism of their style choices? That's the real stuff you need to know when deciding whom to bless with election. So here is the voting guide you cannot live without in this year's presidential race: the REAL Rasmussen report.
Democratic Party
Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (NY)--WINNER: New Hampshire
Hillary Clinton is a sourpuss and a Janus-faced bitch who will say anything and everything to get elected. She is completely unscrupulous, as not having had an orgasm in the past however-old-she-is years has allowed her to devote all her time and bitter energy into a lying, cheating, sneaking means of achieving her ambition for ultimate power. LL Cool Jew loves her and is all excited about the prospect of a woman president, but I frankly don't want that haggard old cow blazing the trail for the rest of us in her hideous pantsuits. America isn't ready for a woman president yet. In fact, they won't be ready until around November 17, 2013, which is my thirty-fifth birthday and the day that my Razzy '16 campaign for the White House begins!
Outlook: Hillary is ugly, mean, and an unlikable shrew. Our first woman president should be hotter than her, and more interesting, and named Razzy. Hillary's going to pull out like her husband's cigar from a fat bitch's vagina after she loses bad on Super Tuesday. Trust.
Senator Barack Obama (IL)--WINNER: lame ass Iowa
As I mentioned before, I associate Barack Obama with mean honeys. It's not like I expect one night stands to give me flowers or tell me I'm beautiful or write me poetry, but you at least don't have to tell me that I'm so insignificant that I may as well not exist. I mean, I DID just give you a killer blow job. I guess Barack Obama's supporters feel the same way about showing gratitude as he does the war in Iraq! In addition to promulgating careless treatment of one's Friday night hookup, Obama looks like a bag of bones. Having sex with Barack Obama must feel like doing it with a bag of Lincoln logs. I bet his hips are mad sharp. I hate that. Pointy pelvises result in bruised thighs and hip joint issues...seriously. I am not a fan.
Outlook: Barack Obama does give some good oration, and he's okay-looking (in comparison to Hillary and Mike Gravel). He'll probably win the nomination, but I still reserve the right to make fun of his angular ass.
Former Senator John Edwards (NC)
Edwards is a real smooth-talker, which as I am constantly reminded, is because he previously was engaged in the noble profession of trial-lawyering. Not like Hillary, who as my friend HotLawyer would say, "is a little more solicitor than barrister, if you know what I mean", but an honest-to-God lawyer who shouts things like "Objection! Badgering!" and "permission to treat this witness as hostile" and delivers stirring closing arguments. Edwards supporters like to paint him as some sort of courtroom saint rather than an ambulance chasing personal injury lawyer, and overall this makes him look like a cheesy, insincere salesman. It's not a stretch for me to imagine him in a car lot asking, "Now, just what'll it take for you to drive out of here in that brand new Prius?" Edwards is a looker and he's got that whole Southern charm thing going for him, but he overdoes it and that makes it seem like he's trying too hard. His overcompensation makes me wonder if Edwards hasn't been having some of Bob Dole's troubles, and I'm not talking about his war injury. It doesn't help, either, that Edwards probably isn't getting any on account of his wife's recurrent breast cancer.
Outlook: If Edwards dials down the charlatanry, he might be able to make up some ground against Obama and Succubus Clinton. He needs to be a little more Treat Williams and a little less John Ritter, a little more brow-furrowing, serious Lifetime movie than bawdy, grinning sitcom swinger if he wants to stay relevant.
Former Senator Mike Gravel (AK)
Who?
Outlook: No. Just no.
Representative Dennis Kucinich (OH)
A vegan known for his strong anti-space weapon stances (based on his encounter with an UFO right down the street from where I grew up), Kucinich is best known for saying cuh-razy stuff like "it'll be a workers' White House in 2008!" and being constantly interrupted during the debates he's actually allowed to participate in. I usually hate hippies on principle, but I love the Kuch. He's like a magical little elf who pops on to the scene to provide some refreshing, enthusiastic comic relief.
Outlook: A dark horse, because he may garner some of the previously ignored but highly lucrative demographic of voters who favor candidates based on their ability to provide unintentional comedy. He DID get more votes in New Hampshire than Gravel. However, I'm pleased to note that America is still too kickass to elect a hyperactive vegan hippie pinko alien abductee to the White House. U!S!A! U!S!A!
Governor Bill Richardson (NM)
Snooooooooooore. I forgot he was even running.
Outlook: Nobody cares enough to even pay attention when he drops out, which should be any time now.
The Grand Old Party
Senator John McCain (AZ)--WINNER: New Hampshire
John McCain is hot. He survived torture, beat cancer, doesn't take shit from anyone, rolls in a sweet tour bus, and is married to a fierce lesbian. VOTE FOR MCCAIN!
Outlook: President McCain will take the oath of office in January 2009 with his loyal power dyke by his side, and will proceed to usher in a new era of prosperity and asskickery for America, the greatest country in the history of the world.
Former Governor Mike Huckabee (AR)--WINNER: lame ass Iowa
Mike Huckabee is annoying and spends entirely too much time involving Jesus in his campaign. Plus, after eight years of having a slack-jawed yokel running this country straight into the proverbial hog wallow, are we really ready to elect another?
Outlook: He's the kind of dude that my Aunt Jesus would vote for because he's so right with the Lord, and he's not a Mormon like Romney or an idol-worshipping Catholic like Giuliani. I'd say this would guarantee he'll drop out of the race because of his supporters' stupidity, but these people managed to elect Bush twice. Huckabee's in the game.
Former Governor Mitt Romney (MA)
Mitt Romney is a dumbass who has taken a clear stance only on how he feels about procreating. Judging by the size of the small, clean-cut, white as snow army which has sprung from his loins, he's for it. Frankly, as the world is currently facing an overpopulation crisis, I'd say that his fecundity sets a bad example for everyone. If the president isn't allowed to get extramarital BJs, then the president shouldn't be allowed to spawn his own personal force of missionaries going door-to-door annoying everyone. Plus, Mitt Romney is mean to his dog and says racist shit on accident. He's an idiot.
Outlook: After dropping out of the race following a colossal defeat on Super Tuesday, Romney does what he does best: making babies with the missus! And he probably adds a few more grandkids to the brood too.
Former Senator Fred Thompson (TN)
Fred Thompson was awesome as the chief of Dulles Airport security in Die Hard 2:Die Harder, but he's a regular snorefest as a candidate. If he'd run with Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy, it would be a different story, because McCoy would be busy riding around on his motorcycle, banging the hot young attorneys in his office, and excoriating murderers stupid enough to take the stand in their own defense. Jack McCoy would make Thompson's candidacy interesting, but unfortunately he's just a character on "Law and Order." In real life, he doesn't exist to help Thompson add a little sizzle to his campaign, and too bad. Homeboy has no panache whatsoever. A friend of mine with a friend who knows (once boned) Fred Thompson has a theory that he's only running to boost his speaker fees on the lecture circuit. That sounds like a much more reasonable ambition than actually getting elected.
Outlook: Fred Thompson can speak to your organization for a mere $15K. He'll have plenty of time to prepare his soporific and unremarkable lecture since he won't be in the Oval Office! Hopefully, he'll also rejoin the cast of "Law and Order."
Former Mayor Rudy Giuliani (NY)
Giuliani will never get the Republican base to vote for him based on the above photograph alone. Those fundamentalist neo-cons will get one look at him in all his Broadway finery and vote immediately for Huckabee. It's just as well: Giuliani is a lying, misappropriating, corrupt, dirty, sleazy, depraved, hypocritical asshole with a staff of crooks and no ethical reservations about anything whatsoever. He's a total dirtbag asshole and I hate him! Plus he shut down lots of strip clubs and porn shops when he was mayor of Nieuw Amsterdam, and I can't abide by that.
Outlook: Giuliani better bone up on his drag renditions of salty dance numbers from Cabaret, because that is a more realistic career prospect for him than his can-canning his way to Washington.
Representative Duncan Hunter (CA)
Duncan Hunter always looks like the drunk uncle that makes an ass out of himself at weddings and graduations with some woefully inappropriate toast. That's basically all I know, or care to know, about him. Every time he gives a speech I can practically smell the essence of Canadian Club issuing from my television.
Outlook: Sha right.
Former Ambassador Alan Keyes
Dr. Alan Keyes is the Dennis Kucinich of the Republican party. They never let him talk, but on the rare occasion he does, it's priceless. He just interrupts people and rambles on incoherently about how he hates abortion and income tax. It makes no sense, but it's highly amusing.
Outlook: Grim, but very good that he'll run in 2012 and we'll be treated to more of his unique, finger-wagging, ULTRA-conservative viewpoint.
Representative Ron Paul (TX)
Ron Paul is basically a libertarian, and is thus awesome. However, America isn't ready to have their face rocked off with a libertarian in power doing away with three-fourths of the federal government (at least, not until I run for President in 2016!), so Ron Paul is going nowhere fast. Besides, he looks like Skeletor, and everyone knows Skeletor was a bad guy.
Outlook: Ron Paul drops out anytime now and stops scaring children while making faces as he rails against governmental largesse.
Okay, there you have it. You need never turn to cable news or these other, less legitimate "Rasmussen reports" again for your election results, because you heard it here what the real story is with the 2008 party campaign trail. You can basically skip the news for the next few months. In fact, just skip it until November, when you show up at your local polling place to vote for John McCain.
That may be, and the truth is I only don't like Obama because I slept with a guy whose bedroom was basically a shrine to the Obama campaign, and that guy wound up being kind of mean to me after the fact and that hurt my feelings. Therefore I associate Barack Obama with being told post-coitally that I am "nothing." Not "it was nothing" but that "you, Razzy, are nothing." WRONG! I'm not voting for that!
Benzo is right in that I am a total political cynic, because I think all politicians are douchebags and liars regardless of their party. Consequently, I have similarly irrational reasons for hating all the Democratic and Republican candidates, and I might as well share them with you so that you can make an informed decision once your state primary rolls around. I heard that there's some website called Rasmussen Reports where some asshole is throwing my totally awesome surname around in conjunction with a bunch of polls. The cable news channels are always citing each candidate's fortunes in the Rasmussen polls, and seem to regard them as the gold standard of political surveys (obviously not in small part because of the weighty authoritative credibility that a dope-ass name like Rasmussen imparts). Now, Rasmussen Reports has a lot of information about "statistical significance" and the like, but I'm thinking it's all a big scam. There can only REALLY be one Rasmussen Report of any significance about who is the front runner in each party's race for the nomination, and I'm pleased to say it's called RAZZY.org. Who needs analysis of how candidates mobilize various voter demographics via their stands on the issues when you can instead have wild speculation about their sex lives and criticism of their style choices? That's the real stuff you need to know when deciding whom to bless with election. So here is the voting guide you cannot live without in this year's presidential race: the REAL Rasmussen report.
Democratic Party
Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton (NY)--WINNER: New Hampshire
Hillary Clinton is a sourpuss and a Janus-faced bitch who will say anything and everything to get elected. She is completely unscrupulous, as not having had an orgasm in the past however-old-she-is years has allowed her to devote all her time and bitter energy into a lying, cheating, sneaking means of achieving her ambition for ultimate power. LL Cool Jew loves her and is all excited about the prospect of a woman president, but I frankly don't want that haggard old cow blazing the trail for the rest of us in her hideous pantsuits. America isn't ready for a woman president yet. In fact, they won't be ready until around November 17, 2013, which is my thirty-fifth birthday and the day that my Razzy '16 campaign for the White House begins!
Outlook: Hillary is ugly, mean, and an unlikable shrew. Our first woman president should be hotter than her, and more interesting, and named Razzy. Hillary's going to pull out like her husband's cigar from a fat bitch's vagina after she loses bad on Super Tuesday. Trust.
Senator Barack Obama (IL)--WINNER: lame ass Iowa
As I mentioned before, I associate Barack Obama with mean honeys. It's not like I expect one night stands to give me flowers or tell me I'm beautiful or write me poetry, but you at least don't have to tell me that I'm so insignificant that I may as well not exist. I mean, I DID just give you a killer blow job. I guess Barack Obama's supporters feel the same way about showing gratitude as he does the war in Iraq! In addition to promulgating careless treatment of one's Friday night hookup, Obama looks like a bag of bones. Having sex with Barack Obama must feel like doing it with a bag of Lincoln logs. I bet his hips are mad sharp. I hate that. Pointy pelvises result in bruised thighs and hip joint issues...seriously. I am not a fan.
Outlook: Barack Obama does give some good oration, and he's okay-looking (in comparison to Hillary and Mike Gravel). He'll probably win the nomination, but I still reserve the right to make fun of his angular ass.
Former Senator John Edwards (NC)
Edwards is a real smooth-talker, which as I am constantly reminded, is because he previously was engaged in the noble profession of trial-lawyering. Not like Hillary, who as my friend HotLawyer would say, "is a little more solicitor than barrister, if you know what I mean", but an honest-to-God lawyer who shouts things like "Objection! Badgering!" and "permission to treat this witness as hostile" and delivers stirring closing arguments. Edwards supporters like to paint him as some sort of courtroom saint rather than an ambulance chasing personal injury lawyer, and overall this makes him look like a cheesy, insincere salesman. It's not a stretch for me to imagine him in a car lot asking, "Now, just what'll it take for you to drive out of here in that brand new Prius?" Edwards is a looker and he's got that whole Southern charm thing going for him, but he overdoes it and that makes it seem like he's trying too hard. His overcompensation makes me wonder if Edwards hasn't been having some of Bob Dole's troubles, and I'm not talking about his war injury. It doesn't help, either, that Edwards probably isn't getting any on account of his wife's recurrent breast cancer.
Outlook: If Edwards dials down the charlatanry, he might be able to make up some ground against Obama and Succubus Clinton. He needs to be a little more Treat Williams and a little less John Ritter, a little more brow-furrowing, serious Lifetime movie than bawdy, grinning sitcom swinger if he wants to stay relevant.
Former Senator Mike Gravel (AK)
Who?
Outlook: No. Just no.
Representative Dennis Kucinich (OH)
A vegan known for his strong anti-space weapon stances (based on his encounter with an UFO right down the street from where I grew up), Kucinich is best known for saying cuh-razy stuff like "it'll be a workers' White House in 2008!" and being constantly interrupted during the debates he's actually allowed to participate in. I usually hate hippies on principle, but I love the Kuch. He's like a magical little elf who pops on to the scene to provide some refreshing, enthusiastic comic relief.
Outlook: A dark horse, because he may garner some of the previously ignored but highly lucrative demographic of voters who favor candidates based on their ability to provide unintentional comedy. He DID get more votes in New Hampshire than Gravel. However, I'm pleased to note that America is still too kickass to elect a hyperactive vegan hippie pinko alien abductee to the White House. U!S!A! U!S!A!
Governor Bill Richardson (NM)
Snooooooooooore. I forgot he was even running.
Outlook: Nobody cares enough to even pay attention when he drops out, which should be any time now.
The Grand Old Party
Senator John McCain (AZ)--WINNER: New Hampshire
John McCain is hot. He survived torture, beat cancer, doesn't take shit from anyone, rolls in a sweet tour bus, and is married to a fierce lesbian. VOTE FOR MCCAIN!
Outlook: President McCain will take the oath of office in January 2009 with his loyal power dyke by his side, and will proceed to usher in a new era of prosperity and asskickery for America, the greatest country in the history of the world.
Former Governor Mike Huckabee (AR)--WINNER: lame ass Iowa
Mike Huckabee is annoying and spends entirely too much time involving Jesus in his campaign. Plus, after eight years of having a slack-jawed yokel running this country straight into the proverbial hog wallow, are we really ready to elect another?
Outlook: He's the kind of dude that my Aunt Jesus would vote for because he's so right with the Lord, and he's not a Mormon like Romney or an idol-worshipping Catholic like Giuliani. I'd say this would guarantee he'll drop out of the race because of his supporters' stupidity, but these people managed to elect Bush twice. Huckabee's in the game.
Former Governor Mitt Romney (MA)
Mitt Romney is a dumbass who has taken a clear stance only on how he feels about procreating. Judging by the size of the small, clean-cut, white as snow army which has sprung from his loins, he's for it. Frankly, as the world is currently facing an overpopulation crisis, I'd say that his fecundity sets a bad example for everyone. If the president isn't allowed to get extramarital BJs, then the president shouldn't be allowed to spawn his own personal force of missionaries going door-to-door annoying everyone. Plus, Mitt Romney is mean to his dog and says racist shit on accident. He's an idiot.
Outlook: After dropping out of the race following a colossal defeat on Super Tuesday, Romney does what he does best: making babies with the missus! And he probably adds a few more grandkids to the brood too.
Former Senator Fred Thompson (TN)
Fred Thompson was awesome as the chief of Dulles Airport security in Die Hard 2:Die Harder, but he's a regular snorefest as a candidate. If he'd run with Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy, it would be a different story, because McCoy would be busy riding around on his motorcycle, banging the hot young attorneys in his office, and excoriating murderers stupid enough to take the stand in their own defense. Jack McCoy would make Thompson's candidacy interesting, but unfortunately he's just a character on "Law and Order." In real life, he doesn't exist to help Thompson add a little sizzle to his campaign, and too bad. Homeboy has no panache whatsoever. A friend of mine with a friend who knows (once boned) Fred Thompson has a theory that he's only running to boost his speaker fees on the lecture circuit. That sounds like a much more reasonable ambition than actually getting elected.
Outlook: Fred Thompson can speak to your organization for a mere $15K. He'll have plenty of time to prepare his soporific and unremarkable lecture since he won't be in the Oval Office! Hopefully, he'll also rejoin the cast of "Law and Order."
Former Mayor Rudy Giuliani (NY)
Giuliani will never get the Republican base to vote for him based on the above photograph alone. Those fundamentalist neo-cons will get one look at him in all his Broadway finery and vote immediately for Huckabee. It's just as well: Giuliani is a lying, misappropriating, corrupt, dirty, sleazy, depraved, hypocritical asshole with a staff of crooks and no ethical reservations about anything whatsoever. He's a total dirtbag asshole and I hate him! Plus he shut down lots of strip clubs and porn shops when he was mayor of Nieuw Amsterdam, and I can't abide by that.
Outlook: Giuliani better bone up on his drag renditions of salty dance numbers from Cabaret, because that is a more realistic career prospect for him than his can-canning his way to Washington.
Representative Duncan Hunter (CA)
Duncan Hunter always looks like the drunk uncle that makes an ass out of himself at weddings and graduations with some woefully inappropriate toast. That's basically all I know, or care to know, about him. Every time he gives a speech I can practically smell the essence of Canadian Club issuing from my television.
Outlook: Sha right.
Former Ambassador Alan Keyes
Dr. Alan Keyes is the Dennis Kucinich of the Republican party. They never let him talk, but on the rare occasion he does, it's priceless. He just interrupts people and rambles on incoherently about how he hates abortion and income tax. It makes no sense, but it's highly amusing.
Outlook: Grim, but very good that he'll run in 2012 and we'll be treated to more of his unique, finger-wagging, ULTRA-conservative viewpoint.
Representative Ron Paul (TX)
Ron Paul is basically a libertarian, and is thus awesome. However, America isn't ready to have their face rocked off with a libertarian in power doing away with three-fourths of the federal government (at least, not until I run for President in 2016!), so Ron Paul is going nowhere fast. Besides, he looks like Skeletor, and everyone knows Skeletor was a bad guy.
Outlook: Ron Paul drops out anytime now and stops scaring children while making faces as he rails against governmental largesse.
Okay, there you have it. You need never turn to cable news or these other, less legitimate "Rasmussen reports" again for your election results, because you heard it here what the real story is with the 2008 party campaign trail. You can basically skip the news for the next few months. In fact, just skip it until November, when you show up at your local polling place to vote for John McCain.
Labels: assholes, John McCain, libertarians rule, Mitt Romney, politics, Razzification, tyrannical rulers
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Senator John McCain (R-AZ)
DOB: August 29, 1936
Occupation: U.S. Senator, Republican presidential candidate, Navy pilot, maverick, curmudgeonly old bastard, hot piece of elderly ass
Hometown: Coco-Solo Air Base, Panama Canal Zone, and other assorted strategic military locations in the Pacific theater
Current residence: when not on the campaign trail, Arizona
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've always liked John McCain. When I was back at Smith, I had to write the Republican perspective for the Sophian, the school paper of which I was the associate editor. Since the only Republican on our staff was a horrible writer and a lunatic, and since being an asshole comes naturally to me, I got tapped to represent the "conservative" side of things for our op/ed page's Point/Counterpoint political column. The 2000 race to the White House was gearing up, and in the course of writing this column, I familiarized myself with all the Republican candidates. I realized that I actually liked John McCain. In fact, I LOVED John McCain. I wanted to hop right aboard his "Straight Talk Express" and tour the country with him blasting special interests.
Although John McCain lost a little of my respect for trying to act like he and Dubya are BFFs when everyone knows they hate each other's guts during these intervening 8 dark years of the Bush presidency, I was totally excited to see his recent resurgence in popularity. He seems to have once again embraced his no-bullshit approach to politics, and I could listen to him shoot his mouth off condemning torture all day. I was even more excited when LL Cool Jew texted me: "the chant at mccain hq: 'MAC IS BACK'." YES! McCain won New Hampshire! SCORE!
I am just praying that McCain continues to cruise all over the other douchebags in the Republican ranks. Huckabee needs to be spanked hard with all the damn Jesus imagery he keeps trying to deliver subliminal messages with in his campaign ads, Romney needs to take that stick out of his ass and go back to procreating and managing his fortune, Fred Thompson needs to resume his role as District Attorney Arthur Branch on "Law and Order," and Giuliani just needs to sit his corrupt ass down and quit bragging about how 9/11 happened on his watch. McCain is the dope shit!
America needs someone in the White House with a track record of going against the grain. We need a guy who will tell people that they are full of shit when warranted. We need someone with a rebellious spirit, who hates graft and waste and bullshit. Furthermore, if McCain can handle five years of torture that remind me of scenes from The Deerhunter and the Missing in Action movies, he can surely do a more scrupulous job managing our military than our current National Guard service-dodging cowardly moron of a president can. We need John McCain. Furthermore, America needs Cindy McCain to show Hillary Clinton just how superior she is at being a hot power lesbian first lady:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, John McCain, LL Cool Jew, politics
Daily Douchebag: The Biggest Losers
Name: every contestant, trainer, doctor, and host (Caroline Rhea and/or Sami from "Days of Our Lives") on NBC's "The Biggest Loser"
DOB: various
Occupation: bitching about being fat
Hometown: Anytown, USA
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I never watch this show because I caught an episode of it a couple years ago and my head almost exploded due to the large quantity of whining fat people. Oh, boo hoo, the treadmill is hard! Oh, waaaah, I don't want to eat steamed broccoli. Well, asshole, you should have thought about that before you let your weight balloon over the 300 lb mark. Watching this show made my blood pressure dangerously high, so I never watched it again. In fact, when this was on yesterday, I had just gotten home semi-drunk from having after-work drinks with SisterChristian, and rather than watch people diet, I watched Anthony Bourdain making snide jokes and stuffing his face with water buffalo curry in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
Last night, probably because "American Gangster" or a Taylor Swift video wasn't on, HotLawyer apparently decided to sit down in front of his idiot box back in Tacompton and make the same mistake I had a couple years back. I saw this morning when I work up that he sent me a text that read: "I have determined that everyone on Biggest Loser is a really big loser." Truth!
"The Biggest Loser" is a show that allows all the lazy fat people sitting on their fucking couches to feel like they're doing something about being fat, because they are watching a show about other fat people losing weight. While it claims to be a show that will "inspire" the lardasses at home to get off their fat asses and try to lose weight themselves, I guarantee that the viewers at home are much more interested in watching the contestants battle their morbid obesity from a sedentary position, probably with tubs of ice cream on their laps. This show creates more fat people than it destroys.
Also, HotLawyer is right when he says that all the contestants are losers. The transgendered-looking staff of trainers (especially Jillian--she definitely has a Y chromosome) always has to go to ridiculous lengths to motivate most of these dipshits. They will put them on an elliptical machine for all of five minutes before the average "Biggest Loser" contestant is hyperventilating and begging to quit. And the complaints they make ad nauseum about exercise are NOTHING compared to the complaints about their diet, which basically consists solely of steamed vegetables. Without fail, some dumb bitch is eating brownies on the sly by the end of the first episode, precipitating a lot of lame discussions with the trainers and staff about trust and impulse control. Then the fat chick freaks and is obstinate about how she deserves brownies because of some sad story in her past, the therapists come in to counsel her on how brownies are the crutch she relies upon to get over her childhood trauma (always a variation on having low self-esteem due to being made fun of for being fat), and the viewer is left wanting to throw their TV out the window, preferably onto the nearest passing fat person. Did you think that losing 150 pounds was going to be as easy as hitting the Taco Bell drive through? Quit your bitching and eat your fucking spinach.
Probably the worst part of "The Biggest Loser," though, comes when they all weigh in at the end of the show. These are not people who should be in sports bras and running shorts for ANY reason, yet there they are, clambering up onto the fancy scale with all their spare flesh spilling out for the world to see. The only good I can see coming out of such a frightening display of fat half-naked people on national television is that presumably it causes the aforementioned fat people (along with everyone else) to lose their appetites, thus augmenting their diets. It is an appalling 15 minutes of television. There is a reason why fat people wear baggy t-shirts and mumus at the beach, and that reason is the weigh-in scene on the "Biggest Loser." If I wanted to be grossed out, I would just watch one of those medical anomaly shows about birth defects or weird vascular face tumors on TLC.
I guess I can't get too worked up, though, because "The Biggest Loser" exists merely as the yang to the yin of one of NBC's few triumphs (besides "To Catch a Predator"): the revival of "American Gladiators." I watched that Sunday and, with the exception of me getting annoyed by Hulk Hogan's "brother"-laden commentary, it was just as awesome as I remember it being when I was a kid.
My favorite gladiators so far are Helga and Titan, Helga because bitch is a hot piece of fierce faux-Teutonic rage (plus she gives some serious porn star face) and Titan because he looks like the bastard child of a Ken doll and the guy who played RoboCop, and I love RoboCop. Man, that movie kicked ass. Even more ass than Titan kicks on the regular during the "Pyramid."
I guess "American Gladiators" ass-stomping dominance had to be kept in check by something as unimaginably lame as "The Biggest Loser." It would be nice if NBC could find some sort of happy medium, like a crossover special in which the American Gladiators just run roughshod over all the contestants on the "Biggest Loser." I bet they wouldn't whine to the Gladiators like they do to their trainers. Even if they did, the Gladiators would just make awesome growly faces and beat the shit out of them with their infamous giant Q-tips anyway. I am practically pissing myself with excitement about the idea of Helga and Titan knocking all those fat fucks into a pool with some 100-pound swinging medicine balls. NBC needs to get right on that.
Labels: American Gladiators, Daily Douchebag, exercise drama, fat fucks, gluttony, HotLawyer, TV
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Live offensively a little
I was bored and engaging in a hobby of mine: perusing crazy Christian websites and amusing myself by making fun of them. I found myself back at an old favorite: Live Offensively, the site belonging to a "for-profit ministry" that makes shirts for kids that say "Porn is for Posers" and "Abortion is Mean" so that they can be the biggest assholes about loving Jesus as humanly possible.
I found myself on their "War Room" page reading inspirational stories from their "Ground Troops." Most of the stories are positively frightening personal accounts of how these future abortion clinic bombers alienate themselves from their peers with their radical, extremely judgmental practice of Christianity. Take, for example, Allison Havemann's "war stories":
I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun, so I went ahead and left my own posting. Okay, so maybe I stretched the truth a little in that I didn't actually get a "Porno is for Posers" shirt for Christmas, and I don't go to a public school, and I actually think porno is for winners, and I'm not a teenager, but whatever. It was fun crafting this thrilling little yarn about being a psycho Christian hatemonger in training, as well as uploading that vintage 1996 picture of me in full baby dyke regalia!
I found myself on their "War Room" page reading inspirational stories from their "Ground Troops." Most of the stories are positively frightening personal accounts of how these future abortion clinic bombers alienate themselves from their peers with their radical, extremely judgmental practice of Christianity. Take, for example, Allison Havemann's "war stories":
I live on an all girls "Catholic campus". I put these words in quotation marks because Catholics are Christians and therefore should be living up to the standards that Christ has set before the church - but they aren't - at least at my school. I chose to go to this school in hopes of avoiding the perversions that run rampant at many colleges throughout the US thinking that an all girls school would be the way to go and I could focus on my studies and not be exposed to anything that might hinder my grades or my future marriage to my fiance. Well, thank GOD that I am protected by Jesus Christ! My dorm (and this is true for all other dorm buildings from what I have been told) is FULL OF SIN! While our school has a rule that male visitors have to be out by midnight, our school has no rule against female visitors. Our school has a VERY high lesbian population and does NOTHING to stop it because, really, what can they do? It's an all girls school! In my building, yelling, running up and down the halls and excess noise is the least of my concerns - I open my door (I have a private room) to the main hall way and what do I see?...girls kissing each other, half naked, drinking beer, and acting in ways Ive personally never seen before other than raunchy comercials for horrid videos. I complained to my RA and got basically a "sorry, what can I do about it?" response - so I decided to do something about it! I am known as the "Jesus Freak" on campus, so why not live up to that title? Now, my room is the first dorm on the first floor - so all the "action" takes place RIGHT outside my door on a nightly basis. SO....I asked God what He wanted me to do...and this is what I did with His guidance...I wrote down the plan for salvation, scriptures to save people, and quotes about what is sinful in the eyes of the Lord (fornication, homosexuality, being drunk, etc) and posted these scriptures (which I made colorful and BIG) ALL over my dorm room door. I figured - if they are going to sin outside my door, they are going to see God's response to it! I've annoyed some people by this, and my RA even said to take it down that it is offending people - well what do you think is offending me! The sin of these "women" in my dorm which no one will do anything about. I REFUSE to take down my scripture and I KNOW my rights as well. I have also been sliding tracts from Way of the Master under doors in my building and have made known my stance and place with the Lord Jesus. I REFUSE to let sin reign!God, what a party pooper. I'd be thanking Jesus if I opened my door to see a bunch of half-naked girls drinking beer and making out, not praying for him to bring judgment. No wonder everyone hates Allison. I'd be annoyed if I was trying to experiment with my sexuality and I kept being interrupted by big, colorful tracts on "The Way of the Master" being slid under my door. What a nosy bitch. And a stupid one, if she thought that going to a Catholic school would mean no oral sex and constant sobriety. Booze and head are the cornerstones of a Catholic education.
Since posting the scriptures and plan for salvation, the offensive activities have lessened although I am well aware that I am not liked by these girls...but who cares! I AM LOVED BY CHRIST!
Please pray for these girls in my building...its really disgusting what they are doing and I feel very sorry for them and pray for them constantly.
REFUSE TO LET SIN REIGN!
In His Service!
Allison
I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun, so I went ahead and left my own posting. Okay, so maybe I stretched the truth a little in that I didn't actually get a "Porno is for Posers" shirt for Christmas, and I don't go to a public school, and I actually think porno is for winners, and I'm not a teenager, but whatever. It was fun crafting this thrilling little yarn about being a psycho Christian hatemonger in training, as well as uploading that vintage 1996 picture of me in full baby dyke regalia!
Hai guys!I wonder if the people at Live Offensively will ever figure out that I'm actually a drunken, porn-watching, fornicating, snatch-licking, cocksucking, abortion-supporting, morally bereft bisexual slut in the evolution business (sort of) who hasn't received the sacrament of reconciliation from her local idol-worshipping priest in almost two decades. Probably not, because they're too busy trying to disprove Darwin, kill family planning clinic employees, inform fags about God's hatred, condemn everyone who disagrees with them, and generally strive to be as insufferably obnoxious and detestable as possible. But if they do, I hope they send me funny e-mail! And pray for me. Or prey for me. Whichevs.
I got one of the "Porno is for Posers" shirts for X-mas and proud to say that I made quite a statemint at school with it LOL! At first the other kids called me names like "Jesus freak" and stuff (and they always call me this because I don't keep quiet about pointing out which of them are homosexuals and fornicators and drug user s and sinners so they can repent before the Lord punishes them for their sins) but before you know it everyone was paying attention to it and talking about it and I could tell the Lord was at work!!!!!!!! :-)
Then I couldn't believe when I got sent to the principle's office and told my shirt was against the dress code cuz it is about porno. I said it was against porno and refused to take it off and started praying right then and there and I go to public school so this didnt go over to well! Then the principle called my mom to come get me and she told the principle we are gonna go right home and pray that Jesus forgives HIM for all his sin! My mom says shes gonna get me the abortion is mean shirt because that's not against the dress code.
I can't wait to get my abortion shirt and I'm gonna get one of the evolution shirts for when I have sicience class because I am not scared to stand up for Jesus Christ the LORD at my school, not shamed to show that I love God and I hate sin, I know the principle and the other kids will catch on before God punishes them for their sins! Please prey for me as I try to LIVE OFFENSIVELY!
Christ's love 4EVA!!!!!
Angie
Labels: assholes, crazies, Dear God, intentional buffoonery
Rug burned
Last night I checked my mail and received one of the weirdest pieces of junk mail I've ever gotten. I was about to throw away the envelope covered with what I assumed were interest rates and temporary favorable terms for some credit card that would be my utter fiscal destruction, until I looked a little closer.
The front read:
The letter inside explained more:
They may look like reject extras from a vintage Breck shampoo ad, but they put great stock in the prayer rug method of wealth acquisition. And speaking of the prayer rug, I finally found it. Apparently over at St. Matthew's, a piece of paper constitutes a "rug."
Unfortunately, no matter how long I stared, I couldn't make Jesus open his eyes. I attribute this to either the fact that my prayer rug is broken, or my complete inability to solve Magic Eye puzzles. It has to be that, because there's no way Jesus wouldn't open his eyes for me. If he could, he'd probably be winking at me. You know JC picked up some game hanging with all those hookers back in the day.
Anyway, since I still had my doubts about the efficacy of the prayer rug. I decided to do a little experiment. Although St. Matt's prides itself on its 57-year history, my faith is considerably older. In fact, my religion has approximately 1950 years on St. Matthew's Churches. Since I've been praying the Catholic way my whole life and have yet to be on my knees in a church full of material blessings, I figure this can serve as a negative control for religious devotion that breeds copious overnight wealth. Being Catholic hasn't gotten me a lot besides the ability to metabolize unholy amounts of alcohol and solid blow job techniques. Let's see if St. Matt's can do better. Time for the power of the prayer rug versus the power of the Holy See!
First, I said a full decade of Hail Marys using my trusty rosary. I would have said the whole rosary, but I was watching TV and I can't remember the damn Apostle's Creed. I suppose I could have looked it up, but let's face it: ten Hail Marys might as well be fifty plus some extra Our Fathers and Glory Bes. And nothing happened, anyway. For example, a slutty team of lipstick lesbian models and professional football players didn't show up with a check for a million dollars after rocking the beads off my rosary with the devout piety of my prayer.
Next, I decided to do this prayer rug meditation routine. I elected to kneel on it, which is a position that comes naturally for me. In fact, I decided to get really comfortable to ensure maximal transduction of energy between my prayer rug, St. Matt's church, and God. I figured that my assuming what is a relaxed and secure position for myself could only help my energy beam reach as far as Oklahoma. And heaven.
Unfortunately, after holding this pose for a few minutes, the only blessing I felt I had received was that my Heineken was still cold. I asked God to pretty much hook me up with lots of money, ice, and a fleet of whips to show-stop around town in, and wrapped it up. I got up to stretch, and was just about to dig my Bible from its burial site beneath books about seamen, infectious disease, serial killers, and classic mythology to put the prayer rug in. Upon my vacating the prayer rug, a new tenant moved promptly in:
Either Caesar has some blessings to request from upper management, or a major souce of variability has been introduced into my impeccably designed scientific experiment. The letter didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for one's big, goofy dog to get in on the praying action. It's probably not. After all, "God sees."
Since Caesar decided to meddle with my comparative study of Catholic praying versus St. Matthew's Churches praying, it was basically irretrievably fucked, so I tossed aside the prayer rug and went back to beer drinking and TV-watching. I totally don't have a stamp to mail back the prayer rug or the money to sow a seed at St. Matthew's, but oh well. Hopefully God will find it in his heart to forgive me and hit me with a blast of holy blessing power (ie: a check with lots of zeroes).
Besides, I don't feel all THAT bad about not seeing the prayer rug method through to its completion and reaping the benefits. I'm not sure that 46 grand would have appeared out of thin air even if I had bothered to tuck my prayer rug into my New Testament. I decided to crack open the secret prophecy that I wasn't supposed to look at until the prayer rug was safely on its way back to Tulsa. In spite of the fact that lengthwise it was a damn novel, there were precious few predictions about my future in it. Basically, the only one I could see was "As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed." In other words, I'll be blessed in a to-be-determined way after I hook St. Matt's up with some cold, hard cash. Obviously, that prophecy is WAY off.
I think I'll just stick to munching rugs rather than praying on them. That's more fun, anyway.
The front read:
YOUR HOME FIRST!Loans? Like there's a check inside? Like some church has decided to randomly loan me money? That seems legitimate. I was intrigued. I flipped over the envelope and read the back:
Sunday--January 2008
This very old church loans this to you, to bless someone connected with this home. Then, it must go to another family that desires God's blessings. See letter inside...
Dear Jesus,Hmmm...what is this "Saint Matthew's Churches" of Tulsa, Oklahoma? And why have they singled me out for the benefit of their prayer? I like the sound of this imminent financial blessing I'm about to receive. Plus, the liberal use of boldfacing certainly implies excitement. I better open this letter so that I get "the desires of my heart."
We pray that you will bless someone in this home spiritually, physically, & financially. And please dear Lord, bless the one who's hands open this letter. Make good changes in this one's life and give them the desires of their heart. We pray over and bless this letter in your Holy Name. Amen.
The letter inside explained more:
LET THIS BE THE BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE THROUGH FAITH AND PRAYER.GOD IS READY TO HELP YOU REACH YOUR DREAMS AND GOALS.
Dear...Someone Connected with This Address,Okay, I'll do that. If God is suddenly in the loan sharking-by-mail business, I'm curious to know more about his deal brokers at St. Matt's. And I am Someone Connected with This Address, in that I live here. I'll read on.
READ WHAT GOD IS DOING HERE AT SAINT MATTHEW'S CHURCH.
People just like you are writing to this 57-year-old church, telling us of all types of blessings since this church started praying with them. They are receiving divine help in the form of answered prayer. Some are seeing loved ones saved, and many of them are receiving spiritual, physical, and financial blessings of all types (III John 2, Philippians 4:19)--better jobs, raises in salaries, being able to buy and sell homes, buying new cars, and so on. Actually, these dear people are receiving so many blessings that it is impossible to mention them all in a letter. Read the enclosed brochure on how a Sister used the same type of Bible faith prayer rug that we are sending to you with this letter, and how she was blessed with $46,000.00! Now, we must talk to you about something we see, in the Holy Spirit, concerning you and your family's needs.FORTY SIX GRAND?! From God? Holy shit. Talk to me, St. Matt's.
GOD'S HOLY BLESSING POWER IS IN THE ENCLOSED ANOINTED PRAYER RUG OF FAITH WE ARE LOANING YOU TO USE!!!Jeez, this sounds really urgent...and confusing. Where is this rug they mentioned? And how does it work? I'm a little skeptical, since God hasn't seen fit to bless them with knowledge of how to properly place a comma. I also don't like the fact that I was just returning to my tenement for a relaxing evening with my good friend, Television, and now I'm all of a sudden on a TV-free, rigid 24 hour agenda involving God and some kind of special carpet. This better be worth it. I mean, I want something very wonderful to come to me, but the prospect of my harnessing "God's holy blessing power" with this fabled prayer rug is raising some red flags over in the Razzy Bullshit Detection Department.
WE MUST GIVE YOU THIS OPPORTUNITY FIRST...THEN IT MUST GO TO THE HOME OF ANOTHER DEAR FRIEND WHO NEEDS A BLESSING...You, or someone connected with this address, and another dear family are about to be blessed through this unusual, Bible Faith, Church, Prayer Rug, which we are placing in your care for these next 24 important hours. Because of any needs you are facing, we want you to use this Church Prayer Rug first, then we must pass it on to another dear friend of ours who also needs a blessing. As we pray for you and everyone connected with this address, WE FEEL THAT SOMETHING VERY WONDERFUL IS TRYING TO COME TO YOU.
When you use this Biblical Faith Church Prayer Rug, go into a room where you can be alone (just God and you). Turn off the television and radio and try to be by yourself when you kneel on this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug, or spread it over your knees. We want this Church Ministry, Prayer Rug to be touching both of your knees as you pray for the needs you are facing right now. It is going to be like you are kneeling before God All Mighty at the altar inside a great church of blessings. If you need more joy, peace, health, money, a new car, a new house, healing in family communication, or whatever, we as a very old (57 years) church, want to know about it. Check your prayer needs on page two of this letter. Talk to us. This power you and this church ministry are about to use works! (St. Matthew 18:19)Kneeling before "God All Mighty" in a church full of blessings sounds to me like a good night in a bar bathroom. If that is all it takes to get joy, peace, health, money, a new car, a new house, healing in family communication and whatever, I'm suddenly newly confident in my ability to put this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug to good use.
These next 24 important hours are crucial to you. Timing is important to God. After you kneel on this Church Prayer Rug, or place it over your knees, place it in a Bible, on Philippians 4:19. (If you don't have a Bible, it's okay--just slide it under your side of the bed, for tonight, if you can. If you can't do this, it is okay.) Leave It There No Longer Than Tonight Only! God sees. Then, in the morning it is a must that you get this unusual blessing Church Prayer Rug out of this house and back to us, here at the church's chapel prayer room, in faith. We must also have this letter back, with whatever you need prayer for, printed on page two. You must get this Bible Prayer Rug back to us so we can rush it onto another family that's in need of a blessing. Do this without fail. Please, do not break this flow of power between us.Okay, okay...this is complicated, but whatever. I actually even have a Bible.
Notice the face of Jesus on this Church Prayer Rug. When you first look, you will notice that His eyes are closed. If you relax and continue looking straight into His eyes, you will see His eyes slowly opening, and He will begin looking back at you. Jesus sees your needs (Philippians 4:19). Use this unusual, important, Church Prayer Rug for tonight only.Whoa, an interactive Jesus is on the prayer rug. That sounds trippy. How did they fit a prayer rug into a damn envelope? Hopefully this informative missive will inform me of that next.
Let us ask you: Would you like to have God's blessings upon your home, your family and your finances? Say, "Yes, Lord Jesus, I do need Your financial blessings upon me and my family's finances (Deuteronomy 28:6). Just put a mark by your needs below, telling us that you want prayer. Also, check any other needs you are facing. Pray about sowing a seed gift to the Lord's work. Give God your best seed and believe Him for His best blessing (St. Luke 6:38).Uh oh, this sounds like the catch in this whole deal. "Sowing a seed gift" actually means "open your wallet to the Lord," and that I don't do. Okay, I put a few ducats in the collection box at Mass, but that's about it. I don't just write checks to the church. If this whole "financial blessing" is conditional upon my monetary investment, then fuck a prayer rug!
Dear Jesus, help this one get their best seed to sow towards their coming harvest (Galatians 6:7). We pray in Thy Name. Amen.
Now, go and use this Church, Faith, Prayer Rug. The Lord is watching and waiting, by faith. You are about to enter the Holy Spirit of God right here in your home, through this faith exercise. Then, it is a must that you return it for another to use.Oooo! Secret prophecy?! Well, now I'm definitely going to do this prayer rug business and follow my faith, Holy Ghost instructions, if only to get the equivalent of a Jesus freak fortune cookie. I checked out the testimonials and I have to admit that they sound pretty convincing, at least if you're willing to assume these people from the 1970s are credible witnesses:
Friends of Jesus for 57 Years of Glorious Service!
Saint Matthew's Churches Bishops
P.S. Read your faith, Holy Ghost instructions on the enclosed, sealed prophecy, only after you have mailed this Prayer Rug back to the church.
They may look like reject extras from a vintage Breck shampoo ad, but they put great stock in the prayer rug method of wealth acquisition. And speaking of the prayer rug, I finally found it. Apparently over at St. Matthew's, a piece of paper constitutes a "rug."
Unfortunately, no matter how long I stared, I couldn't make Jesus open his eyes. I attribute this to either the fact that my prayer rug is broken, or my complete inability to solve Magic Eye puzzles. It has to be that, because there's no way Jesus wouldn't open his eyes for me. If he could, he'd probably be winking at me. You know JC picked up some game hanging with all those hookers back in the day.
Anyway, since I still had my doubts about the efficacy of the prayer rug. I decided to do a little experiment. Although St. Matt's prides itself on its 57-year history, my faith is considerably older. In fact, my religion has approximately 1950 years on St. Matthew's Churches. Since I've been praying the Catholic way my whole life and have yet to be on my knees in a church full of material blessings, I figure this can serve as a negative control for religious devotion that breeds copious overnight wealth. Being Catholic hasn't gotten me a lot besides the ability to metabolize unholy amounts of alcohol and solid blow job techniques. Let's see if St. Matt's can do better. Time for the power of the prayer rug versus the power of the Holy See!
First, I said a full decade of Hail Marys using my trusty rosary. I would have said the whole rosary, but I was watching TV and I can't remember the damn Apostle's Creed. I suppose I could have looked it up, but let's face it: ten Hail Marys might as well be fifty plus some extra Our Fathers and Glory Bes. And nothing happened, anyway. For example, a slutty team of lipstick lesbian models and professional football players didn't show up with a check for a million dollars after rocking the beads off my rosary with the devout piety of my prayer.
Next, I decided to do this prayer rug meditation routine. I elected to kneel on it, which is a position that comes naturally for me. In fact, I decided to get really comfortable to ensure maximal transduction of energy between my prayer rug, St. Matt's church, and God. I figured that my assuming what is a relaxed and secure position for myself could only help my energy beam reach as far as Oklahoma. And heaven.
Unfortunately, after holding this pose for a few minutes, the only blessing I felt I had received was that my Heineken was still cold. I asked God to pretty much hook me up with lots of money, ice, and a fleet of whips to show-stop around town in, and wrapped it up. I got up to stretch, and was just about to dig my Bible from its burial site beneath books about seamen, infectious disease, serial killers, and classic mythology to put the prayer rug in. Upon my vacating the prayer rug, a new tenant moved promptly in:
Either Caesar has some blessings to request from upper management, or a major souce of variability has been introduced into my impeccably designed scientific experiment. The letter didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for one's big, goofy dog to get in on the praying action. It's probably not. After all, "God sees."
Since Caesar decided to meddle with my comparative study of Catholic praying versus St. Matthew's Churches praying, it was basically irretrievably fucked, so I tossed aside the prayer rug and went back to beer drinking and TV-watching. I totally don't have a stamp to mail back the prayer rug or the money to sow a seed at St. Matthew's, but oh well. Hopefully God will find it in his heart to forgive me and hit me with a blast of holy blessing power (ie: a check with lots of zeroes).
Besides, I don't feel all THAT bad about not seeing the prayer rug method through to its completion and reaping the benefits. I'm not sure that 46 grand would have appeared out of thin air even if I had bothered to tuck my prayer rug into my New Testament. I decided to crack open the secret prophecy that I wasn't supposed to look at until the prayer rug was safely on its way back to Tulsa. In spite of the fact that lengthwise it was a damn novel, there were precious few predictions about my future in it. Basically, the only one I could see was "As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed." In other words, I'll be blessed in a to-be-determined way after I hook St. Matt's up with some cold, hard cash. Obviously, that prophecy is WAY off.
I think I'll just stick to munching rugs rather than praying on them. That's more fun, anyway.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, Catholicism, correspondence, Dear God, intentional buffoonery, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Robert Sylvester Kelly
DOB: January 8, 1967--Kells is 41 today!
Occupation: Pied Piper/R-uh/King of R&B, player, baller, R&B thug, sexasaurus, Mr. Entertainment, angel, Capricorn, champ, a mountain, tall tree, swift wind sweeping the country, river down in the valley, vision that can see clearly, that star up in the sky, that mountain peak up high, that little bit of hope when my back's against the ropes, giant, eagle, lion down in the jungle, a marching band, the people, helping hand, and hero...in other words, the world's greatest.
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: with them playerette flirters in the Chi
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Don't go to work, today, people, because it's a national holiday! You may recall from Robert Sylvester Kelly's masterpiece of song "The Greatest Sex" that he promises "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn"...well, that's a reference to the chronological placement of his birthday, which is today!!! Yes, Kells turns 41 today!
I don't know why this wasn't all over the news last night. Every time I turn on the news I'm seeing a bunch of trash about the New Hampshire primaries, and nothing about this hallowed occasion. I'm sorry but I don't care how badly Obama is kicking Hillary Clinton in the twat when it's R. Kelly's special day! (However, I have suddenly decided to now support Barack Obama because he is a Senator from the state that blessed us with Robert Sylvester Kelly's mackadelic nightspot realness. It seems I have found new criteria for my political loyalties: affiliation, however remote, with R. Kelly will get you my vote).
It's pretty much a crime that all of America isn't at least having a national moment of silence to show appropriate awestruck reverence on this important day. R. Kelly is an American treasure, and frankly, I'm getting a little tired of that obvious fact being overlooked. Every time I bring up Kells, I hear the same boring disparagements: he's a child molester and he pisses on people. Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that. Blah blah blah. First of all, Kells is going to walk on those child porn charges. I have already done a crack armchair legal analysis of the case and determined that the prosecution will not even come close to proving that R-dot is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. And no, I'm not a lawyer, but my friend Morrissey'sHair is, and he said I did a good job. R. Kelly is going to be found NOT FUCKING GUILTY, and then I'll be accepting all the haters' apologies for their unfair and libelous attacks on Kells's character in his stead.
I think I need to get to work lobbying Congress for a day off work and bank closures today, because not recognizing January 8 as a high holy day is inexcusable. And by "high holy day" I mean "at a club with some other bitches, sittin' in VIP, smokin' and drinkin' and kickin' it," and not fucking with any jealous no-man-having-ass hoes anyway. America needs to pay tribute to its greatest living artist, and I think that our nation would be receptive to a holiday traditionally celebrated by suspending the rules at one's crib, getting butt-naked in sweat socks and house shoes, and stocking one's cooler with a hundred bottles of Cris. This could be bigger than Thanksgiving. Okay, that might be a stretch...but it could at least be bigger than Arbor Day. Write your congressman and demand that January 8 be declared National Robert Sylvester Kelly Day now!
And happy birthday, Kells! Here's hoping that whatever dizzy-legged chicks that you double up with do a bang-up job massaging your toes and braiding your hair today.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Chidi Ogbuta
DOB: ???
Occupation: bridezilla
Current residence: Allen, Texas
Douchebaggery: I'm sure that Chidi Ogbuta is a nice enough person, but she is a great example of how fucking crazy bitches can get about their weddings. I may not be the type of girl who wastes a lot of time fantasizing about her "big day" (especially since in my fantasy world, my "big day" refers to the day that I buy my NFL team and not the day I get my MRS degree), but even if I were more marriage-minded, I doubt that I would do something like this.
Chidi has apparently always wanted a doll modeled in her own likeness, and she decided that, since she's not friends with Rack and thus isn't getting a "My Bitches" figurine anytime soon, she would go ahead and drop thousands of dollars on a wedding cake shaped like a life-sized replica of herself. It required her coordinating with a pastry chef and a head sculptor in two different states, which if you ask me is a lot of work just to imitate the hideously ugly bridal gown Chidi chose for her nuptials.
I do not understand why chicks go to such ridiculous, obviously expensive lengths for their narcissistic, pointless wedding fantasies. If I were getting married (sha), I'd be like, "Honey, let's go to the courthouse," have a cheap-ass civil ceremony, and spend all the thousands that would go toward a wedding on some fabulous vacation so I could consummate my marriage by boning my new husband in some exotic locale. Or buy a house. Or do something more constructive than waste money having edible replicas made of myself in a revolting dress to satisfy my own overpowering sense of bridal vanity. Because even though at the reception I'm sure the guests were either all, "Ooooh, cool cake!" or (my reaction) "That cake is creepy," like anyone really cares that much about the damn cake! In ten years, nobody is going to be reminiscing fondly about Chidi's cake. In fact, unless they got laid there, nobody is going to even remember anything about Chidi's wedding, except maybe that her bridal gown was totally butt. Given that, having that cake made just seems like an awful lot of trouble for a minimal return on what was probably a large investment.
Chidi is stupid, and she has bad taste in dresses. And pastries. But congratulations to her and her husband on their recent matrimony! I hope the relationship is more beautiful than the cake and/or the bride.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gluttony, holy fucking matrimony, intentional buffoonery, sluts, vanity, you're ugly
Monday, January 07, 2008
Recipe for a perfect Saturday
1. Wake up. Note time.
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I noted that Jack Del Rio is kind of a hot piece. He really works that challenge flag.
Now that he's lost his typical funeral suit with garish Jags-colored tie, I'd hit that. Usually I like a man in a suit, but Jack Del Rio has bad taste in suits and looks stupid wearing them on the sidelines. I appreciate his effort to class it up, but he just doesn't wear a suit well with his giant Motorola headset. It doesn't work. Also, he has a real problem with wearing these Oakleys that are straight out of 1997, and it's not a good look for him. He needs to wear outfits like this leather jacket number more often. It gives him that kind of rugged, middle-aged bad boy dad look that Steve Mariucci used to rock to great effect back when he was tearing his hair out over Joey Harrington's passer rating in Detroit.
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
Labels: alcoholism, Bev Niner, comeuppance, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, NFL football, Rack, Razzification, Seahawks, Senioritis, Stealers suck
Daily Douchebag: New York and Tailor Made
DOB: January 6, 1982 and ????
Occupation: grossing everybody out
Hometown: Utica, New York and Queens, New York
Current residence: wherever there are F-list paparazzi lurking to capture more displays of stomach-turning vulgarity; most recently, Miami Beach and Vh1's sound stage in Los Angeles
Douchebaggery: Last night was the "I Love New York 2" reunion show, and it was a little on the anticlimactic side. I spent half of it being bored out of my mind by what was mostly contrived, predictable dramas and the other half being completely disgusted. I'm glad that New York and Tailor Made--both of whom I have already douchebagged--are putting on a good show of being deeply in love and actually engaged (and congratulations to Tailor Made on finalizing his divorce). However, I wish they weren't putting on such a great show that they felt the need to do this every time a camera gets pointed their way:
Adding to the skeezy factor is the fact that I am calling it now: Tailor Made has a straight up pencil dick. I HATE effing guys with skinny dicks. It's almost worse than fucking a dude with a short dick. At least guys with short dicks know their dicks are short, and thus try to compensate other ways (if they're smart), like by learning how to give decent head. Guys with skinny dicks often think that because their dicks are an adequate length, they have big dicks and are thus Don Juan. I can't tell you how many pencil-dicked morons I've boned who acted like I should thank them for blessing my vagina with their slender and unsatisfying rods. I fucked this guy one time who had delusions of grandeur so serious that he kept instructing me to close my legs so his dick wouldn't go in all the way and "hurt (my) cervix." First of all, EWWWW! Second, how dare you suggest that your cock is just too much man for me to handle?! Trust that I've sat on bigger dicks than your fucking bundle of dry fettuccine, so don't tell me about how to avoid the imaginary damage that's going to do to my internal lady bits, asshole. Needless to say, he didn't get a sequel. Since New York even told Tailor Made that he needed to get a penis implant during a couples' counseling session, I'm betting that she is having the same kind of stupid "close your legs" problems with her man. The last thing anyone needs is them making out all the time reminding us that Tailor Made is going home to pencil-dick the bejesus out of New York and her astonishing basketball breasts.
Anyway, I hope for the sake of my stomach and its general level of distress that this relationship is a sham and they quit playing it up for the media. Besides, if New York and Tailor Made work out, there won't be an "I Love New York 3," which I think everyone can agree would rule. Vh1 needs something from this franchise to air anyway, after "Rock of Love 2" and "Flavor of Love 3" wrap up this spring. So break up, already.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gross, I Love New York, oh the horror, plastic surgery, TV, Vh1
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Anna O'Malley
Name: Anna O'Malley
DOB: 1967
Occupation: "data entry specialist," hot unwitting victim
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: One day, Anna O'Malley was just minding her own business when her phone started blowing up with calls from seeming perverts. I imagine at first she was confused, then a little scared, then pissed as hell upon realizing that this was a result of somebody getting up to some asshole mischief on Craigslist. According to the NY Daily News:
Fake Craigslist post offered sex for cashAh, this fake call-me-for-sex Craigslist posting brings back memories. Memories of happy, carefree days past in which a dumb bitch named Tejratan Bindra (Smith '07) took exception to mean things I wrote about her dorm room on my blog and orchestrated the following similar attack on my privacy and well-being, in which I was "besieged" by correspondence from "men hungry for sex:"
BY CARRIE MELAGO
DAILY NEWS STAFF WRITER
Sunday, January 6th 2008, 4:00 AM
Men hungry for sex besieged a Brooklyn woman with phone calls after spotting a bogus ad on Craigslist that said she was looking to turn tricks to pay off Christmas debt.
Anna O'Malley, 40, was stunned to learn someone with the e-mail address igotjunglefever@gmail.com posted an ad Jan. 2 offering sex for cash using her name and telephone number.
"I'm a hardworking, honest person and I would never in my life post an ad like that," said O'Malley, who was awakened last week to more than a dozen calls.
The callers were responding to the racy ad, which read: "I'm a real hottie looking to earn extra cash to pay off Christmas debt."
The data entry specialist had to change her phone number.
"I don't want to constantly look over my shoulder," she said.
O'Malley said she was further peeved when Craigslist would not help her locate the pervert.
After one of the callers flagged the ad for O'Malley, it was taken down too fast for her to check if her home address or other personal information was listed. She also wasn't able to take down other details to give cops, she said.
Craigslist initially told O'Malley they could not turn over the ad without a subpoena. But after they were contacted yesterday by the Daily News, the Web site turned over the full text.
"We hope Ms. O'Malley will decide to pursue this, in which case we will look forward to assisting law enforcement in bringing the perpetrator to justice," CEO Jim Buckmaster said in a statement.
WHY did I not show Anna O'Malley's common sense and go to the damn Daily News when this happened to me? Granted, my fake Craigslist ad was offering to give it up for free rather than recoup holiday bills via prostitution, but still...I DID get more than a dozen calls. And the dumb bitch who put up the ad actually corresponded with one of the respondents and sent him to my apartment door. I strongly suspect that the aforementioned dumb bitch was able to obtain my personal information from Smith College's glorified alumnae network database. What later became known to Razzy historians as the Tej Offensive got out of control, and I went to the cops, who sent me to the FBI. Nothing happened because the harassment ceased as soon as I tattled on Tej to Smith College's Dean of Students. But I never thought of making like Anna and telling the Daily News (or better yet, the Post) about it! That was a smart move.
I should have gone to the press, not just because it would be awesome to have the CEO of Craigslist commenting on my predicament, but because it would have been sooooooooo embarrassing and distressing for Tej, who aspires to maybe go to law school, where she might be semi-interested in doing stuff about human rights. I can only imagine the look on her jowly face fretting about the prospect of her former bosses at the New York City Human Rights Commission opening their morning Daily News and seeing Tej's name in glorious ignonimous print. Kiss that recommendation from that oh-so-valuable Praxis-funded internship goodbye! Why didn't I think of that? Clearly, Anna O'Malley is a sage, and she must also be a real ball-busting bitch to have incurred an enemy serious enough to go the sexual-identity theft-on-Craigslist route. I hereby register my admiration.
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dumb Smith bitches, sexual assault, Tej Offensive, vengeance is sweet
Friday, January 04, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney Spears AGAIN
DOB: December 2, 1981
Occupation: special needs
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: psychiatric ward, Cedars-Sinai Hospital, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: BECAUSE IT FINALLY HAS HAPPENED! Britney really went crazy. Not just shave her head crazy. Not just fuck a paparazzo crazy. Not just five Frappuccinos a day crazy. Not bare feet in a gas station bathroom crazy, bad wig crazy, or buy a new puppy mill dog crazy. She went full-on insane, refused to return her kids to K-Fed, locked her court-appointed monitor out of the house, locked herself in a room with Jayden James, and was finally hauled away to the "special needs" ward of the hospital in an ambulance. She's being kept in the hospital for 72 hours, and then is going to be booked on as-yet-undisclosed charges. I predict kidnapping and possession/use of methamphetamine.
I honestly don't really know why I'm so infatuated with Britney's drama, but I never get tired of her lunatic antics. In anyone else's case, this sort of thing would be sad, but with Britney it's more riveting than "who shot J.R.?" circa 1984. She obviously went nuts when she saw that K-Fed spent New Year's Eve partying with Paris Hilton at some club in Vegas at what must have been the douchiest party in North America, and went straight for the crystal to calm herself down. Or a fresh bottle of Jenkem. Either that or she was pissed that Jamie-Lynn's teen pregnancy has been stealing all her tabloid thunder as of late and she knew she really had to take the crazy up a few notches to get the spotlight squarely back on her.
In any event, I continue to love the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. She entertains me now even more than she ever did as a musician/pop star, and I must confess that then she entertained me a LOT. If this is how she's starting out the New Year, 2008 is shaping up to be a great one. So now, bring on the mugshot and the charges! It's Britney's year, bitch!
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, crazies, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, Kevin Federline
Daily Douchebag: Iowa
DOB: December 28, 1846
Occupation: producing obnoxious hipsters, having the first say in the two major parties' road to the White House, producing corn and grain and farm-type shit
Douchebaggery: I have no doubt that last night my friend LL Cool Jew was glued to the Iowa caucus returns the same way I was glued to the rerun of "Project Runway" that I watched, or the way that I will be glued to the Seahawks-Redskins playoff game this Saturday. LL Cool Jew is crazy about political races. When I lived with her, those cable news political shows that I find interminably boring (that shit with Judy Woodruff, that shit that used to have Tucker Carlson on it, etc.)--excepting, of course, the magnificent "Hardball"--would be on the TV almost as often as reality trash, "Nip/Tuck," or NFL football. LL Cool Jew loves her some politics.
It's not that I'm apathetic about who is president; obviously, I hate George W. Bush and I didn't vote for his bitch ass. I didn't vote for Kerry either. I voted for Michael Badnarik, skydiving libertarian, because I think we need more adventure sportsmen in the White House who will fire 1/3 of the Federal government. I did a little research on Badnarik and sent away for a Michael Badnarik sticker which I hung in our kitchen by LL Cool Jew's Kerry sticker and voila! There is the extent of my political activism. What I don't give two shits about (or even one shit, for that matter), is this caucus and primary crap.
I am not affiliated with either major party, and even though I'm registered as a Republican just to be an asshole, I have zero interest in helping either pick who their candidate is going to be. Let me know when the conventions are, and I'll watch the bullshit then and decide who I'm going to vote for. In the meantime, I don't give a fuck about whose momentum is waxing or waning unless there's a hilarious debate (with either Dennis Kucinich or Alan Keyes) to entertain me, and I sure as fuck don't care what Iowa thinks about it.
Which brings me to today's rant: why the fuck does Iowa get to be the first state to weigh in on who they want each party to put in the home stretch? Iowa sucks. What the hell does Iowa contribute to anything except a primary that's not even a primary? It's a lame-ass CAUCUS. It pretty much doesn't even count! I mean, woo hoo! Delegates supporting Barack Obama (douchebag) and Mike Huckabee (double douchebag) are going to the county conventions! Wake me up when they have an actual primary.
The only reason Iowa gets so much press is that they decide to do this first every year. I suspect Iowa did this because they're Iowa, and apart from years where people occasionally care about their college sports teams, nobody gives a good Goddamn about Iowa. Iowa is full of fat people and fast food restaurants and boring small towns. Iowa has no hills, no coastline, and nothing remarkable geographically except a sea of corn and wheat fields. I've driven through Iowa and all I can remember about it is that it takes FOREVER to drive through because it's so unadulteratedly unremarkable. The only thing that breaks up the monotony of Iowa are various travel oases where one can gas up their car (to facilitate getting the hell out of Iowa ASAP) and buy a Cinnabon or some Taco Bell for the road.
Even the people of Iowa want to escape Iowa, if Williamsburg, Brooklyn and the Lower East Side are any indication. These areas of New York City are full of messenger-bag toting hipster assholes who are all from Iowa (or one of its neighboring states) and love to think they are the first dipshits on the planets who have ever heard of Franz Ferdinand. There is this girl, Sohard, who is in my lab and is from Iowa. She is also one of my least favorite people in the world because she fronts so hard like she is this edgy trendsetter when we all know she's a hick from Cedar Rapids. Check out her MySpace if you don't believe me (OF COURSE one of her favorite books is The Unbearable Lightness of Being...this is the pseudointellectual go-to book for social networking profiles). Well, she's also one of my least favorite people because every time she and I get into a fight (which happens at least twice a year), she tattles on me and tells our PI (boss) that I'm scaring her, and he makes me reassure him that I'll at least be professional around her, and then she misinterprets that for having license to butt into my conversations whenever she likes with her banal, asinine opinions about whatever she feels like talking down to people about any given day. Feast your eyes on someone who has an overinflated opinion of their own perceived coolness...and who doesn't look anything AT ALL like any of the other hipsters rocking frumpy cardigans, some type of contrived mullet-inspired hairstyle, and vintage t-shirts around the city:
"Oh, you know who Johnny Marr ith?"
"Yes, he was the guitarist for the Smiths. As you know, I like The Smiths and Morrissey very much." Morrissey is a sore subject for her, since when J-Sexy, SisterChristian, and I went to that concert, we called it a "lab bonding activity" and didn't invite Sohard, because we're bitches and she sucks. That shut her up.
Just because I'd rather listen to Southern ass rap and R. Kelly than that mainstream indie crap doesn't mean I haven't heard of it, you fucking douchebag poseur. Furthermore, they're from MY HOME STATE, as are half the bands she likes (the other half are from Portland). So don't think that you fucking discovered Modest Mouse or Death Cub for Cutie or whichever other band of sniveling little emo boys whining about their feelings, and don't think your downloading their special edition albums on iTunes means that you have stumbled upon some musical secret that only you are privy to.
Sohard likes to front like she's part of this cutting edge scene that EVERY OTHER ASSHOLE from Iowa living in New York is involved with, and no matter how plainly clear I make it that I'm not part of it because I find pretentious dipshits with intentionally mussed hair who carry around books by people like Camus and Sartre to look smart obnoxious, she still pretends that this is because I am somehow less cultured or educated than her. Right before we all left for the holidays, she brought in a bottle of prosecco for our lab to share. While on the surface this seems like a nice gesture, it was actually a calculated move to show off how much she knows about wine. After bragging to J-Sexy about how much it cost (which is classy all the way), she opened it while going off about how it's a "wonderful American thparkling wine. It's not thampagne, becauthe that can only come from Franthe."
"That's funny," I said. "Because I thought prosecco only came from Italy."
"No, I'm thertain that it'th American," she said in her obnoxiously know-it-all way.
"Check the bottle," I said, directing her to the large stamp on the label that said "Product of Italy." Sohard got very red. I don't think she liked being out-wine snobbed by someone she considers to be a crass, boorish, beer drinker with no taste.
I suppose it's unfair to judge every last Iowan by Sohard's abysmal standards, but I have yet to meet someone from that state who doesn't meet a similar description to hers. So fuck Iowa! Fuck them and their stupid, insignificant caucuses, and all the Sohardish douchebags they send over to New York to stink up dive bars with their insufferable sense of self-righteous originality and intellectual consciousness. Iowa comes in second to Connecticut as the worst state in the US! Iowa blows.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, grad school bullshit, politics
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Today in important civil court news
You want to know who is the most ungrateful bastard on the planet? Take a gander (and note the herpes sore on his upper lip in the picture on the left...from sucking the d!):
Shaffer "Ne-Yo" Smith is his name, and bitchy lawsuits are his game. The Smoking Gun is reporting that Ne-Yo filed a stupid lawsuit against the tour promoters for The World's Greatest, AKA The Pied Piper of R&B AKA The R-Uh in R&B AKA The King of R&B AKA The Champ AKA Kells AKA who my friend Morrissey'sHair calls "The Morrissey of R&B" (the highest compliment he can pay) AKA MY BOYFRIEND ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. Ne-Yo was supposed to be an opening act on R. Kelly's Double Up Tour, along with Keyshia Cole and J. "I'm-a Put You to Bed" Holiday, but got canned after a couple of shows due to some kind of undisclosed "contract dispute." This was before the date for the show LL Cool Jew and I went to see at the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum. When I heard that news, I was like, "Awesome. One less opening act to delay the awesomeness that is Kells."
Besides, I don't think Ne-Yo is that great. That "Sexy Love" song he had out in 2006 was so annoying to me that I would literally become apoplectic with rage every time it came on Hot97 or Power105, and THEN I'd had enough of Ne-Yo. In fact, every time his name comes up, my friend J-Sexy likes to start singing "Sex-ay Loooooove" at me just to stoke the flames of my ire, even though in her opinion, "That 'Sexy Love' song is exactly why I think R&B is completely ridicolos" and "Ne-Yo looks a little gay...mmm hmm...yes, he is in the closet." I also despised--and I mean LOATHED to the core of my being--that song about how cute his girlfriend is when she's mad. "So Sick," Ne-Yo's biggest hit to date, describes how I feel when aurally confronted with any of his music. Ne-Yo's songs since have been tolerable only because they have all been collaborations with artists I like (namely, T-Pain, who is giving Kells a run for his money as the most absurdly awesome singer on the modern R&B scene.)
Anyway, Ne-Yo's frivolous lawsuit is saying that he didn't leave the tour because of a contract dispute, but because he outshone Kells and thus had to be dropped. He claims he was booted because "the audience's and critics' more favorable reaction to Smith than the reaction to R. Kelly." I'm calling BULLSHIT on that, and here's why.
I actually saw a show on the Double Up Tour, and I can say without a doubt that it was one of the greatest nights of my life. It was like a fucking religious experience, and it was quite clear that the vast majority of the audience shared my sentiments.
Furthermore, although Ne-Yo was off the tour bill when I saw the show I was blessed enough to attend, I doubt Kells would have been jealous regardless of the audience reaction. For one thing, the audience went absolutely nuts when Keyshia Cole performed, and as far as I know, she's still employed by Rowe Promotions. For another, R. Kelly isn't going to dump an act that makes his tour MORE successful. If Ne-Yo was doing such a great job, then why would he can someone who would help sell more tickets? Kells is trying to make money with which to buy new silver 'Llac jeeps to park out at his beach home, not decrease tour profits by firing awesome opening acts guaranteed to draw people in.
Finally, there is a reason why R. Kelly has been producing hit albums and continues to be the biggest name in R&B for SEVENTEEN YEARS (practically Ne-Yo's entire lifetime): he is an amazing performer. R. Kelly performed for two and a half hours straight with NO lip synching and his voice was perfect, he was hilarious, and the crowd was whipped into a frenzy of Kells adoration. Everyone was TREMENDOUSLY entertained. Nobody left the show early. When the show finally ended, EVERYONE I saw were in the same afterglowy state of heightened pleasure and happiness that LL Cool Jew and myself were experiencing. I doubt that however fucking good Ne-Yo's live "Sexy Love" performance was, thirty minutes of him could eclipse the veritable juggernaut of orgasmic, mind-blowing awesomeness that Kells brought to the stage. Ne-Yo wishes.
What I think happened is that Ne-Yo wanted more money when he got favorable reviews, the tour promoters were like, "Tough, bitch, you signed a contract saying you get $750K or whatever and to quote Kells, that's that shit." Ne-Yo either left or got himself fired by being a diva, and the Double Up tour went on to great success without him. Still, as R. Kelly notes in "Feelin' On Yo Booty" (most sagaciously, I might add), "haters they want to hate, and ballers they want to ball." Ne-Yo is hate, while Kells continues to ball. And if he can beat fourteen counts of child porn charges this May (which he will--trust), he can destroy Ne-Yo's piddly little bitch of a lawsuit with naught but a dismissive gesturing of the international sign for jerk-off. The only thing Ne-Yo is good at is annoying me and cluttering up the Los Angeles Civil Court calendar with his pathetic attempts at recouping a paycheck he lost for being a dumbass with delusions of grandeur.
Robert Sylvester Kelly wins again and as usual!
Besides, I don't think Ne-Yo is that great. That "Sexy Love" song he had out in 2006 was so annoying to me that I would literally become apoplectic with rage every time it came on Hot97 or Power105, and THEN I'd had enough of Ne-Yo. In fact, every time his name comes up, my friend J-Sexy likes to start singing "Sex-ay Loooooove" at me just to stoke the flames of my ire, even though in her opinion, "That 'Sexy Love' song is exactly why I think R&B is completely ridicolos" and "Ne-Yo looks a little gay...mmm hmm...yes, he is in the closet." I also despised--and I mean LOATHED to the core of my being--that song about how cute his girlfriend is when she's mad. "So Sick," Ne-Yo's biggest hit to date, describes how I feel when aurally confronted with any of his music. Ne-Yo's songs since have been tolerable only because they have all been collaborations with artists I like (namely, T-Pain, who is giving Kells a run for his money as the most absurdly awesome singer on the modern R&B scene.)
Anyway, Ne-Yo's frivolous lawsuit is saying that he didn't leave the tour because of a contract dispute, but because he outshone Kells and thus had to be dropped. He claims he was booted because "the audience's and critics' more favorable reaction to Smith than the reaction to R. Kelly." I'm calling BULLSHIT on that, and here's why.
I actually saw a show on the Double Up Tour, and I can say without a doubt that it was one of the greatest nights of my life. It was like a fucking religious experience, and it was quite clear that the vast majority of the audience shared my sentiments.
Furthermore, although Ne-Yo was off the tour bill when I saw the show I was blessed enough to attend, I doubt Kells would have been jealous regardless of the audience reaction. For one thing, the audience went absolutely nuts when Keyshia Cole performed, and as far as I know, she's still employed by Rowe Promotions. For another, R. Kelly isn't going to dump an act that makes his tour MORE successful. If Ne-Yo was doing such a great job, then why would he can someone who would help sell more tickets? Kells is trying to make money with which to buy new silver 'Llac jeeps to park out at his beach home, not decrease tour profits by firing awesome opening acts guaranteed to draw people in.
Finally, there is a reason why R. Kelly has been producing hit albums and continues to be the biggest name in R&B for SEVENTEEN YEARS (practically Ne-Yo's entire lifetime): he is an amazing performer. R. Kelly performed for two and a half hours straight with NO lip synching and his voice was perfect, he was hilarious, and the crowd was whipped into a frenzy of Kells adoration. Everyone was TREMENDOUSLY entertained. Nobody left the show early. When the show finally ended, EVERYONE I saw were in the same afterglowy state of heightened pleasure and happiness that LL Cool Jew and myself were experiencing. I doubt that however fucking good Ne-Yo's live "Sexy Love" performance was, thirty minutes of him could eclipse the veritable juggernaut of orgasmic, mind-blowing awesomeness that Kells brought to the stage. Ne-Yo wishes.
What I think happened is that Ne-Yo wanted more money when he got favorable reviews, the tour promoters were like, "Tough, bitch, you signed a contract saying you get $750K or whatever and to quote Kells, that's that shit." Ne-Yo either left or got himself fired by being a diva, and the Double Up tour went on to great success without him. Still, as R. Kelly notes in "Feelin' On Yo Booty" (most sagaciously, I might add), "haters they want to hate, and ballers they want to ball." Ne-Yo is hate, while Kells continues to ball. And if he can beat fourteen counts of child porn charges this May (which he will--trust), he can destroy Ne-Yo's piddly little bitch of a lawsuit with naught but a dismissive gesturing of the international sign for jerk-off. The only thing Ne-Yo is good at is annoying me and cluttering up the Los Angeles Civil Court calendar with his pathetic attempts at recouping a paycheck he lost for being a dumbass with delusions of grandeur.
Labels: armchair barristry, assholes, celebrities, LL Cool Jew, ranting, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kumari Fulbright
Name: Kumari Fulbright
DOB: sometime in 1982
Occupation: failed beauty queen, future waterboarding pro at Gitmo, if they didn't drug test to be a CIA torturer, anyway
Hometown: somewhere in Arizona
Current residence: JAIL, somewhere in Pima County, Arizona
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Kumari, like many beauty queens, represents something all young women should aspire to be. Her stints as Miss Pima County (2005) and Miss Desert Sun (2006) both led to middle-placing appearances in the Miss Arizona pageant. When the beauty queen route didn't pay off, she went to law school and got a job clerking for some district judge in Arizona. Plus, she looks like she could be one of those hot lipstick lesbo Terminators from T3: Rise of the Machines when she's rocking her automatic weapon in a bikini. However, that is where this happy story ends.
At some point in her rise to success, Kumari lost her way and fell in with a bad crowd. She and her gang of thugs decided to kidnap her boyfriend, steal $600 from him, and torture him with biting, beating, threatening to cut off his ear a la Reservoir Dogs, and pointing a gun at him. After 10 hours of this, the boyfriend wrassled her gun away from her and escaped, and got Kumari arrested. Unfortunately, the year since she's been off the pageant circuit has not treated her well, because behold her mugshot. Try not to be terribly surprised that she didn't smote the Miss Arizona pageant's ruin on the mountainside.
Back when I lived in Tacompton, I was fucking this guy for all of five minutes whose aunt was a major tweaker. I didn't know this until our last tryst, in which he wanted to take me to his place in South Tacoma because we always did the deed at my crib. So I drove us there, and was more than a little nervous about leaving my car parked in a most unsavory neighborhood. When we got into this place, I grew even more nervous because his aunt, who was both in desperate need of a root touch-up with her Clairol Maxi-Blonde and a fill on her SERIOUSLY busted acrylics, was all over the place. She was jabbering so fast I couldn't make out what she was saying except that she wanted the guy to watch her son (he agreed), she wanted to borrow $10 from either of us (neither of us agreed), and she was going out to the shed for a few minutes. Her son, who was ten, was a sweet, sad little kid and the guy and I spent most of the time advising him on how to handle bullies at school who were saying bad things about his mom. My heart was breaking, and between the obvious meth-addled aunt and the kid's sad, sad stories, I was very much not in the mood for hot sex. Then the guy put the kid to bed and we proceeded to get down on his bed in the living room, but my heart just wasn't into it. The entire situation really depressed me. I decided that this was not a relationship that was going anywhere, so when we finished, I immediately started getting dressed.
"Don't you want to hang around for a while? I was hoping I could buy you breakfast tomorrow," he pleaded. This guy really liked me, and after getting a gander at his home life, I realized that this was probably because as a college-educated woman with a nice house and a respectable job that came with my own phone extension and my own business cards and my own monogrammed lab coat, I was a monumental departure from the types of scary tweaker ex-cons he was used to banging. He was cute, and he had a pretty decent-sized weiner, but I realized what he had long before: that I was light-years out of his league and I wanted nothing to do with his extremely problematic scene.
"Sorry, I have some things to do. I, uh, had fun, though. Take care."
"I'll call you tomorrow," he said.
"You know," I said. "I'm really busy tomorrow. And I like you, but I just don't think this is going to go anywhere. I just think we're too different. I'm sorry."
He looked depressed. "Okay," he sighed. "Me too. I'm sorry too."
"It's okay. Take care of yourself, okay?" I said, trying to be as kind as possible. He wasn't into meth as far as I could tell, and he was a nice guy, and I did feel bad, but I wasn't into him anymore.
As I walked out, dawn was approaching, and in the gray half-light, I spotted the shed where his aunt had just run out to for a minute...four hours before. As I walked past to the alley where my car was parked (and, thankfully, unmolested), I could hear his aunt and at least two other voices chattering away at top speed. I also could smell some horrible acrid smell that I'm certain was the smell of meth smoke (having never smoked meth myself, I am unfamiliar with its smell, but I imagine it smells something like a lab chemical fire).
It saddens me that a hot piece like Kumari tumbled so far into that kind of depressing, miserable desperation, because I would have hit that like what when she was still a well-groomed beauty queen. That said, however, if she combed out her hair and got clean, I might let her take a ride on the strap-on if only because psycho bitches are the hottest lays. It would be a one-time thing, though, since I have no intention of being kidnapped, robbed, or otherwise tortured. Then again, judging by her mug shot, I think the possibility of her even meeting my basic requirements for a solitary lesbian rendezvous in a bar ladies' room is assuredly remote. It's more likely that the next time she makes an appearance for the local Pima County jail photographer, she'll be absent more than a couple teeth. Too, too bad. Such a waste.
Labels: beauty queens, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, oh the horror, sluts
Daily Douchebag: my left tonsil
Name: my left tonsil
DOB: November 17, 1978
Occupation: annoying me, causing extreme pain
Hometown: the back of my throat
Current residence: halfway down my throat, up to the roof of my mouth, practically obstructing my airway
Douchebaggery: On New Year's Eve/Rack's birthday, I started to notice that my left tonsil, which was swollen and giving me a little grief, was more ouchie than normal. Ever since I had mono when I was a freshman at Smith, my tonsils have been slightly enlarged and whenever I get sick, as Biggie would put it, they blow up like the World Trade. However, on New Year's Eve, the left one seemed to be pretty sore, and not even massive doses of Advil, scotch, champagne, and beer were helping. Granted, I doubt the 5000 cigarettes I smoked helped much either. However, I managed to convince myself that this was the usual tonsil bullshit I've had to put up since 1996, when I was infected with Epstein-Barr virus.
By New Year's Day, that line of rationization wasn't working anymore. My tonsil hurt even worse, I ran out of Advil, and had to go to the drugstore to buy more. I also bought some of that Chloraseptic throat spray, which did nothing. In spite of taking four Benadryl Sunday evening to knock myself out, ostensibly to "sleep it off," I only slept about three hours. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, taking Advil, drinking tea, and looking up shit about tonsils on the internets. After a lot of examination in the mirror, I noticed a large pustule covering the entire side of the offending tonsil, which was decidedly NOT normal as I was trying to be a crack shot with the non-useful Chloraseptic. It's actually really hard to shoot that shit precisely into your own mouth. I decided to march myself straight into Columbia Student Health the second they opened and demand a massive antibiotic prescription, because pustules usually mean one thing: nasty bacterial infection.
When I got to Student Health, swallowing had become so painful that it felt like even water was like drinking a slurry of jagged glass chips, and I could barely speak. I took more Advil and braced myself to use a very-un-Razzy-like economy of words to describe my condition, because talking hurt so much, and because I embarrassingly sounded like the bastard child of Corky Thatcher and Sean Connery.
"Can you take ah walk-in?" I asked the receptionist. "Becautsh I'm exshperiesthing tshevere throat pain."
Nobody else was there, so that was no problem. Then a girl I know from grad school walked in, and started chatting me up.
"My tonshil isth hugthe," I told her. "I think I have an absthescth."
At that point the doctor came out to get me and cheerily said, "Oh, having fun with self-diagnosis, are we?"
I explained that not being able to sleep, I at least wanted to know how serious my condition was, so I looked it up, but I wasn't about to be one of those pain-in-the-ass patients who tells the doctor how to do his job. What I would have told him, however, was not to be so goddamn chatty.
He took one look at my name and then asked if I was Finnish.
"Norwegthian," I said, wincing.
"Oh, where are you from?"
"Stheattle," I said.
"I'm from Seattle, too!" he said.
"In that casthe, I'm actshually from Puyallup," I tried to banter with him, but DUDE. My throat hurts! Cut it with the chit-chat!
Then he looked in my throat and said, "Wow, one time someone diagnosed themselves correctly. Peritonsillar abscess. I haven't seen one of these in a long time!" Then he regaled me with tales of how he used to be an ER doctor, and asked if I had time to go to the ER.
"I'm sorry," he said. "But you have to see a specialist, and our ENT guys aren't coming in today."
"Tsho I have to go to the ER? Like the hosthpital ER?" I was not pleased. The Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital emergency room is a corner of hell that I have always dreaded going to, and I had managed to avoid it throughout my tenure here in New York. All ERs are bad, but the Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital--in the middle of Washington Heights and presumably thus filled with gunshot wounds, stabbings, and horrible car accident victims from the New York side of the George Washington Bridge--is notorious for being one of the worst. I was dreading going there, only because I imagined that even a peritonsillar abscess was far enough down on the triage priority list to mean at LEAST a two hour wait.
"They'll probably give you some painkillers before they incise and drain the abscess," he said. "So try to lay off the ibuprofen until they see you."
GREAT. So not only am I waiting to have them slice up my throat with a scalpel so I can swallow my own pustule's nasty exudate, but I have to do so WITHOUT painkillers. This just keeps getting better.
"But we will print out a letter for them, and call them to advise them that you're on your way!" he said cheerfully. Because I'm sure Columbia Student Health Services has dramatic pull with the triage staff at the ER, and that will put me on some kind of VIP list.
So I walked up the street to the hospital ER, and was completely unsurprised to see that the waiting area was exactly as I imagined: steel-caged vending machines, cops everywhere, bulletproof glass guarding the nurse's station, and an assortment of bums, ne'er-do-wells, and crack addicts lounging around. Also as I imagined, the nurse who took my preliminary info was entirely unimpressed by my letter from Columbia and didn't even respond when I said they had called. "Patients are seen in the order of medical priority, not the order in which they arrived," she said robotically. "Please have a seat."
I did as I was told, and tried to be patient. On the glass-encased TVs, they had the Discovery channel on, and I thought that was something. However, Discovery was showing a rerun of "Cash Cab," which may be the most annoying trivia show ever to grace network cable. Apart from a humorous incident in which some drug addict CLEARLY went to get high in the bathroom, only to be dragged out by the cops rapidly gibbering about how he was just pissing, no, wait, washing his hands, no wait, looking at himself in the mirror, and eventually thrown unceremoniously from the ER when he admitted he wasn't actually waiting for medical care, the one hour and forty-five minutes I spent grew progressively more excruciating as my Advil wore off. By the time I was called, I was actually in tears.
I probably could have held off the tears if I really wanted to, but they were really pushing out, and I can't remember being in so much pain since I was ten and poured boiling water all over my left hand. That injury was worse, but this was pretty bad. I hadn't thought the Advil was doing all that much, but I was obviously mistaken. The Advil at least made the pain somewhat tolerable. The nurse interviewing me was very matter-of-fact, but she at least seemed sympathetic. "Your blood pressure is a little high," she said. "But that's probably due to the pain you are experiencing."
Then she took me back into the ER proper, but there were no beds available. "Have a seat here," she pointed at a random chair. "We've got to get you into the system. It might take awhile."
I sat there, crying. Some old lady came over to take my information...AGAIN, and because of my combined Scottish-Down's Syndrome lisp and my sobbing, she had to ask me to repeat everything at least three times. She did, however, light up like a Christmas tree when I told her that I had insurance. My torturer left, but did say, "I'm sorry, you look so uncomfortable." Then some candy striper got me a pillow to cry into, and some Kleenex. Then some nursing assistant asked if there was anyone she could call for me.
"N-n-n-no," I spluttered. "There'sth n-n-n-nobody." Actually verbalizing this made me feel worse. It wasn't completely true. I could call my friends, but I'm not going to ask them to leave work at the drop of a hat to hold my hand in the ER. "What about your parents?"
"They live on the Wetsht Coastht!" I wailed.
"Don't you have a boyfriend? A pretty girl like you..."
Pretty? With my pus-covered tonsil and my decidedly not-pretty cry-face?
"I'm th-th-th-THINGLE!" I wailed. For the first time in a very long time, I desperately wished I had a boyfriend. They are good for this sort of thing.
"What about your friends? Surely, you have some friends!"
"My friendth are at work or out of town thstill from the holidayth!" I sobbed.
I felt like one of those "Jane Does" from "Law and Order: SVU" whose bodies go unclaimed because nobody in the world cares about them. While that's not true in my case, it certainly sounded that way when I was explaining it to the concerned nursing assistant staff. Apparently this sad, little story about me being alone in the world with absent parents, no boyfriends, and no friends was what they needed. Not five minutes later, they led me to a bed and the attending physician came in to examine me. She disagreed that I had a peritonsillar abscess.
"I'm not seeing the abscess," she said.
"I'm not making thisth up!" I wailed, alarmed. These assholes better not send me home after all this. Time to break out my credentials. "I'm getting a Ph.thD in microbiology, and absthethes are one sthep away from going stheptic! Even if thisth is viral, that pusththule is bacterial!"
"No, you obviously have tonsillitis," she said. "I'm just not sure there's an abscess we need to drain. What I'm going to do is put you on an IV. We're going to give you some antibiotics and some steroids to bring the swelling down, and you probably haven't drank much in the way of fluids the last day or so, so we'll rehydrate you too. And we'll give you some painkillers," she concluded. "We'll check back later today and decide what to do."
Within a few minutes a nurse was hooking me up to an IV, and doping me up. Within another few minutes, I stopped crying. Then the sweet candy striper came back with a fresh pillow and some blankets. "Do you want something to read?" he asked.
"No, I have my book about Kit Carthshon and the conquestht of the American shouthwetsht in my bag," I said. "But I think I'll go to sthleep."
All around me were the sounds of the ER: lots of machines beeping and humming, people shouting, squeaking of wheels as gurneys rolled by, pages going over the intercom directing translators here and there, the occasional shouting of the crazy person. I realized things could be a lot worse. The woman in the bay next to me had undergone a hysterectomy in the Dominican Republic, after which she had a stroke. Now she was experiencing severe neurological pain, and could say nothing except "Ay-yi-yi," a constant litany of which was issuing from behind her curtain. A hot-sounding doctor was explaining to her daughters that the narcotic painkillers standard in the ER wouldn't address her pain issues because it was "nerve pain," and she needed a neurological consult and physical therapy, but in order to get that, she had to get emergency Medicaid since she was uninsured. They had to wait for a social worker to get there before they could do anything. Across the ER from my bed there was a girl, completely unconscious and hooked to like 5 different IVs, whose mother or sister was sitting at her feet looking completely defeated. Somewhere in another section of the ER, someone was screaming occasionally. I said a little prayer of thanks. All of a sudden, my tonsil didn't seem like such a big fucking deal. I fell asleep.
"So, how are we doing?" The doctor was back, and she was feeling my throat.
"I feel a lot better, thank you. Whatever you gave me really knocked me out." My voice was even starting to sound more normal.
"You're probably also just exhausted. Pain is exhausting, and I'm betting you didn't sleep much last night. That tonsil obviously was hurting bad." I was impressed by the doctor's sudden display of sympathetic bedside manner. "Let's have a look," she said, peering into my mouth with her mouth/ear examination flashlight thingy. "The swelling has resolved some, but you still have that pustule. However, your rapid strep test was negative, but those are only about 70% accurate, so we'll just keep treating you empirically. I'm giving you a prescription for penicillin, but obviously as a microbiologist you know you have to finish it, and come back immediately if you spike a fever or if your symptoms get worse."
"Of course," I said.
"In that case, let me prepare your discharge papers. For pain, the high-dose Motrin you were taking should be just fine." Damn, no Vicodin scrip this time around.
She bustled off, and then the hot-sounding doctor peered in. He was a little young-looking, but still my instincts were correct: he was hot. Hot AND smooth. "Hey, honey, is it okay if you get a roommate?"
"Yes, I'm leaving, anyway."
"Oh, well, perfect!" he said. He walked out sight and returned with an empty bed. "I'm Dr. Pork," he said. Wait, did I hear that right? Dr. Pork?! Because that's precisely what I wanted to do to him.
"Dr. Pork?" I asked.
He laughed. "Dr. Bork," he said. Damn, I misheard. "Not that it matters to you, since you're about to make a triumphant exit from this place." Was Dr. Pork flirting with me? I couldn't tell. I was just glad that I could talk more normally.
"Yeah, I'm going back to my apartment to take Advil and penicillin and drink soup. It's gonna be a party," I said.
"Too bad I have to work," he said cheerfully, making the bed. "You could go back to my apartment and take codeine." Okay, he's DEFINITELY flirting with me. He just made a joke about me going back to his place! If only I didn't look like I just woke from a painkiller daze on a ER gurney...alas, I guess my porking Dr. Bork just wasn't meant to be.
"That sounds better than Advil," I managed. "How are you at making soup?"
He laughed, and wheeled in my roommate, some old lady. She had to change into a gown in front of me and this was embarrassing for her. I stuck my nose in my Kit Carson book. More embarrassing for her was when my nurse yanked back the curtain as she was half-undressed to undo my IV and present my discharge papers for my John Hancock. "Sorry, this might rip out your arm hair and hurt a little," she said as she tore off the tape on my IV.
"Too bad you can't do IVs on the bikini line, it would save me a trip to the salon," I said. She laughed uncomfortably. I guess it's not customary to make pussy-waxing jokes in the ER. I signed my papers, inquired about the names of the medicines they'd actually given me because I'm anal-retentive about my medical history like that, and got the hell out of there.
While my ER visit ended on a lighter note, with the resolution of my problems, I have to say that I would have gladly done without flirting with Dr. Pork to have gone to lab and gotten some shit done and not experienced 24 hours of excruciating pain. I really hate it when microbiology gets the better of me. It's like being impaled on my own sword. And that wouldn't happen if my left tonsil didn't slack on its pimping. So fuck you, left tonsil. Fuck you and whatever pathogen colonized you.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, epidemic geekery, gross, NYC, oh the horror, science
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
One more day
I am currently suffering from tonsillitis so bad that I think I may have to get these fuckers removed. I actually think I might have a peritonsillar abscess, as one of my tonsils has this gigantic blister on it. It hurts to cough, it hurts to eat, it hurts to drink, it hurts to swallow, it hurts to talk, and it hurts to do ANYTHING involving my mouth, and yes, that includes performing oral. I have been popping ibuprofen like candy and hosing my throat down with Chloraseptic spray, but nothing seems to help. Therefore, I need to take a day off from blogging so I can get this problem resolved. Obviously, I have loads of fellatio to perform, and also I would like to eat something more nutritious and sustaining than dick (ie: any type of food besides green tea and Cup-A-Soup) without experiencing extreme pain while doing so. Basically, I have to spend my normal blogging time hovering around the waiting room at Columbia health services until one of the doctors can squeeze in a semi-emergency walk-in patient. Therefore, a day of blog silence is mandated, because I simply cannot live in a condition where drinking beer is excruciatingly painful.
Hopefully, assuming that I get hooked up with some hardcore lidocaine gargle and maybe some Vicodin, I will be back to douchebagging people and singing the praises of those I want to hit by tomorrow. Please bear with me, and happy new year!
Hopefully, assuming that I get hooked up with some hardcore lidocaine gargle and maybe some Vicodin, I will be back to douchebagging people and singing the praises of those I want to hit by tomorrow. Please bear with me, and happy new year!
Labels: gross, Razzification
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Happy 2008!
I'm feeling pretty crappy from last night's birthday/New Year's festivities, so rather than extol the virtuous hopes I have for 2008 (ie: GRADUATE from graduate school), I figured I'd let Chingy! do the talking. Or, more accurately, snoring.
Yes, that fat little fuck could care less what year it is so long as he gets to sleep on the damn couch his holiday dogsitter ILoveWhiteTrash bought for him, and cuddle with the stuffed mallard that Santa put under his Christmas tree. But I'm sure if he deigned to wake up and actually express some sentiment besides arrogant contempt, it would be to wish everyone a happy fucking New Year. So happy fucking New Year!
CHONGAY CHONG, 2008!
CHONGAY CHONG, 2008!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, gross
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