Friday, February 29, 2008
From one woman to another, STFU Hillary!
A while back, I douchebagged all the whiny women's organizations that were bitching because Hillary Clinton is getting owned by Barack Obama on account of her female gender. I have no problems with people making legitimate complaints about sex discrimination, but in Hillary's case, it sounds to me like a big bunch of sour grapes. Oh, boo hoo, Hillary is an unlikable, two-faced, lying bitch with bad taste in power pantsuits...she's being DISCRIMINATED against, because there's no way that Barack Obama's comparatively good looks and charming rhetoric about change and vision could possibly seduce the American constituency more than her record of corruption and dishonesty! If I weren't voting for septugenarian stud Senator John McCain, I'd vote for Obama based on looks alone.
Obama may not know what the fuck he's doing, but he's a lot more hittable than Hillary and you haven't heard him doing much whining...and if anyone has cause to complain about discrimination or unfair press, it's him. I haven't seen any major media outlets constantly subtly implying that Hillary is a terrorist.
Now, it seems that Hillary is adding her own voice to the shrewish cacophony of busted, pleated pant-wearing old feminists complaining about being politically undermined by her lack of a Y chromosome...sort of. In an interview with ABC's "Nightline," Hillary said:
I am getting really tired of this sexism crap. Hillary is a victim of her own backfiring political strategies, not some nebulous patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep a woman out of power. Of course I hate it when women get legitimately shafted. On occasions where I've been treated unfairly because of my gender, I get outraged, and it happens more than you might think. People take a look at me, see a petite blonde with her tits hanging out of her shirt, and talk to me like I'm a moron. Even worse, this is usually done by other women. One time the Chief Business Officer of the company I used to work for called me into her office and basically called me a slut for wearing shirts that were "too fitted" for her tastes (this was one of those hookers who still rocked a perm and blazers with shoulder pads in 2002; she was later fired for trying to embezzle $50 grand in unaccounted travel reimbursements). I pointed out that some of my male colleagues wore Grateful Dead shirts that hadn't been washed since before Jerry Garcia died to work that were far less professional than my tailored V-necks. She explained that "this isn't about men, it's about you," and further insulted me by framing this as some kind of constructive career advice. Since she thought I had "potential to achieve," I'd better cover up so as not to threaten other women by enticing the boys with any hint that I might have a hot rack. I told her that my breasts should have nothing to do with my ability to expand T cells ex vivo. I then bitched about this to my (male) boss over beers, he agreed this was discriminatory since our company didn't have a dress code, told the CEO, and the CEO apparently reamed her out about "sexually harassing" valued employees for no reason other than being a jealous hater. I should add that this same corrupt, Razzy-hating CBO was incorrigibly flirtatious with many of the men around the office and installed her twenty-five-year-old boytoy as a "consultant" (translation: doing Google searches for her while billing the company $300 an hour) while she was busy railing against my pro ho outfits and complaining about some of the mothers in our office taking too much maternity leave. This evil CBO perpetrated greater insults against professional women than anything that I've seen happen to Hillary in this campaign, and I'm not complaining that I got screwed because of it. In fact, I'm still showing my tits and having a good time doing it.
Fuck complaining...I am getting a doctorate from an Ivy League grad school and that bitch is unemployed! I win again and as usual!
Incidents like that anecdotal tale of myself and the sexist woman-hating-woman executive certainly suck, but they are nothing any self-respecting professional bitch should spend her time grousing about. The reason those things happen is that people think innately that different standards about character, sexuality, and personality apply to women. However, the only way to change that innate thinking is not for prominent women to grovel and cry and validate ideas that women are weak, emotional, pitiful creatures, but to rise above it and take responsibility for failures as well as successes. Hillary pandering shamelessly for sympathy towards her mostly non-existent plight is disingenuous and anti-feminist, in that it reinforces ideas that women can't own up to their own incompetency. As my old Smith professor Saratoga120 says, "Feminism will have achieved its goals when there are as many mediocre women in positions of power as there are men." Feminism clearly has a way to go.
I need to hurry up and turn 35 so I can show this dumb twat how to really run a presidential campaign. RAZZY 2016!!!!!! In the meantime, go McCain!
Now, it seems that Hillary is adding her own voice to the shrewish cacophony of busted, pleated pant-wearing old feminists complaining about being politically undermined by her lack of a Y chromosome...sort of. In an interview with ABC's "Nightline," Hillary said:
"I think women just sort of shake their head," Clinton continued. "My friends do. They say, 'Oh, my gosh, this is so hard.' Well, it's supposed to be hard. I'm running for the hardest job in the world. No one has ever done this. No woman has ever won a presidential primary before I won New Hampshire. This is hard. And I don't expect any sympathy, I don't expect any kind of, you know, allowances or special privileges, because I knew what I was getting myself into.I can think of at least one woman who is shaking her head for an entirely different reason: ME. I am not feeling sympathetic "oh, Hillary has it so hard" thoughts. This statement is straight out of the Seven Sisters College Handbook for Backhanded Self-Validation. Nothing annoys me more than some broad rattling off a list of her perceived feminist triumphs to qualify what breaks down to "oh, poor me" self-pity. Note her skill at acknowledging that she doesn't expect "allowances or special privileges" to mitigate the self-indulgent qualities of her complaints that she's losing. If you get distracted by caring about Hillary's feelings, you might almost be tricked into thinking that in spite of being a young, relatively inexperienced black man with a jihadist-sounding name that the media eagerly misappropriates for purposes of racist fearmongering, Obama's campaign has been a cakewalk compared to the trials that Hillary has suffered. Excuse me, bitch, but you started your campaign raising more money than any of the other candidates in your party and having your husband AKA the most beloved Democrat since John F. Kennedy stumping for you, and you still fucking blew it. SHUT UP about the playing field being even. Last time I checked, there was a difference between fucking up and getting unfairly screwed over. Just because this scheme didn't go as well as your nefarious cornering of the cattle futures market back in your Whitewater days doesn't mean that the deck was stacked against you.
"Every so often I just wish that it were a little more of an even playing field," she said, "but, you know, I play on whatever field is out there."
I am getting really tired of this sexism crap. Hillary is a victim of her own backfiring political strategies, not some nebulous patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep a woman out of power. Of course I hate it when women get legitimately shafted. On occasions where I've been treated unfairly because of my gender, I get outraged, and it happens more than you might think. People take a look at me, see a petite blonde with her tits hanging out of her shirt, and talk to me like I'm a moron. Even worse, this is usually done by other women. One time the Chief Business Officer of the company I used to work for called me into her office and basically called me a slut for wearing shirts that were "too fitted" for her tastes (this was one of those hookers who still rocked a perm and blazers with shoulder pads in 2002; she was later fired for trying to embezzle $50 grand in unaccounted travel reimbursements). I pointed out that some of my male colleagues wore Grateful Dead shirts that hadn't been washed since before Jerry Garcia died to work that were far less professional than my tailored V-necks. She explained that "this isn't about men, it's about you," and further insulted me by framing this as some kind of constructive career advice. Since she thought I had "potential to achieve," I'd better cover up so as not to threaten other women by enticing the boys with any hint that I might have a hot rack. I told her that my breasts should have nothing to do with my ability to expand T cells ex vivo. I then bitched about this to my (male) boss over beers, he agreed this was discriminatory since our company didn't have a dress code, told the CEO, and the CEO apparently reamed her out about "sexually harassing" valued employees for no reason other than being a jealous hater. I should add that this same corrupt, Razzy-hating CBO was incorrigibly flirtatious with many of the men around the office and installed her twenty-five-year-old boytoy as a "consultant" (translation: doing Google searches for her while billing the company $300 an hour) while she was busy railing against my pro ho outfits and complaining about some of the mothers in our office taking too much maternity leave. This evil CBO perpetrated greater insults against professional women than anything that I've seen happen to Hillary in this campaign, and I'm not complaining that I got screwed because of it. In fact, I'm still showing my tits and having a good time doing it.
Incidents like that anecdotal tale of myself and the sexist woman-hating-woman executive certainly suck, but they are nothing any self-respecting professional bitch should spend her time grousing about. The reason those things happen is that people think innately that different standards about character, sexuality, and personality apply to women. However, the only way to change that innate thinking is not for prominent women to grovel and cry and validate ideas that women are weak, emotional, pitiful creatures, but to rise above it and take responsibility for failures as well as successes. Hillary pandering shamelessly for sympathy towards her mostly non-existent plight is disingenuous and anti-feminist, in that it reinforces ideas that women can't own up to their own incompetency. As my old Smith professor Saratoga120 says, "Feminism will have achieved its goals when there are as many mediocre women in positions of power as there are men." Feminism clearly has a way to go.
I need to hurry up and turn 35 so I can show this dumb twat how to really run a presidential campaign. RAZZY 2016!!!!!! In the meantime, go McCain!
Labels: assholes, Barack Obama, feminazism, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, politics, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dmitry Medvedev
DOB: September 14, 1965
Occupation: deputy prime minister of Russia, heir apparent to the
Hometown: Leningrad, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Current residence: Moscow, Russia
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally, Dmitry would qualify as decidedly too short for my taste (he's only 5'4"...I'm taller than him in high heels). Fitting with his Napoleonic stature, he's about to become the president of Russia because Vladimir Putin likes him, and in the Russian democracy, his vote is the only one that counts. Dmitry is expected to win the "election" this Sunday by a landslide, and continue doing things the Putin way: via autocratic tyranny and hilarious, asshole sound bites.
As I don't follow Russian politics closely other than to take notice when Putin orchestrates a sneaky plot to ruin some previously hot Ukrainian guy's looks via poisoning or to watch the hotness that is Red Dawn, I didn't have any idea who Medvedev was until earlier this week when he came onto my radar when sharing his views on international diplomacy. He said that upon his ascension to power, he is happy to work with any Western leaders, provided they have "modern positions, and not...glints of the past in their eyes, and...semi-senile views." In spite of his diminutive stature, Dmitry has balls of brass to come right out of the gate making what is CLEARLY a huge diss to George W. Bush, albeit a clever one as the use of "semi-" probably mitigates the accusations of senility enough to prevent his being declared an "enemy combatant" when he gets around to doing detente with the United States of Asskickery. Then again, Dmitry is the kind of guy who used his position as Chairman of Gazprom, Russia's state-run gas conglomerate, to cut off energy to the Ukraine to keep them from joining NATO. See how independent you are when you're freezing your dioxin-scarred ass off and eating cold chicken Kiev, Yushchenko! Dmitry is an asshole, but he obviously gets results. I hope he follows his nefarious political schemes to achieve "modern positions" to their logical endpoint and starts forcibly shaving beards off old Russian men, Peter the Great style. Tsarist domination is coming back into vogue.
Even better than his strongarm tactics is his personal life. He's apparently a brilliant lawyer and textbook author, and spends all his down time porking his hot wife Svetlana and listening to Deep Purple. He loves Deep Purple so much that he flew them to the Kremlin to celebrate Gazprom's bending over the Ukraine and making them its bitch. You've got to love a man who celebrates his socioeconomic evildoing with a hot DPing. And get your mind out of the gutter...that stands for "Deep Purpling," you pervs!
Besides, even if he is Vladimir Putin's puppet, I'd rather have Dmitry posing for the photo ops than his predecessor. He's much more appealing for pictures emphasizing Russian "strong like bull" physical prowess than Putin ever could be, even when attempting to pass himself off as some kind of ex-KGB version of Ernest Hemingway:
If I were Russian, Dmitry would totally have my vote. Not that it would matter, but he'd have my pretend, going-through-the-democratic-motions vote nonetheless.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, international intrigue, politics, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Tori Spelling
DOB: May 16, 1973
Occupation: Donna Martin, media whore, spoiled brat
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: Beverly Hills, California
Douchebaggery: While "Beverly Hills, 90210" may be the greatest show in the history of television, it doesn't mean I'm a fan of the actors who make up the greatest cast in the history of ensemble prime-time soaps outside of their work on Bev Niner. Case in point: Tori "Donna Martin" Spelling. While Tori was genius at pretending to be stupid (I mean dyslexic), and particularly shined at her craft when pretending to be either drunk, terrified by a stalker, incompetent at speaking French ("je suis American, and if you don't like it, then TOO BAD!"), or addicted to painkillers, in real life Tori Spelling does NOTHING for me. Out of my lifelong loyalty to Bev Niner, I watched one episode of that "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" trash on Oxygen once while I was waiting for "The Bad Girls Club" to come on, and couldn't even finish it due to the pervasive air of fug and bad acting hanging over that show. The only non-Niner work under Tori's belt that I can applaud is her performance in a Lifetime movie from the mid-90s called Co-Ed Call Girl, and that was only because her impersonation of a naive girl-turned-high-rent whore was even more unintentionally hilarious than the episode of Bev Niner where Donna is "discovered" by a sleazy fashion photographer in Paris and participates in a host of riotous "haute couture" photo shoots--because dressing up as a leather-and-lace skank extra from a Motley Crue video circa 1985 totally screams "high fashion." Frankly, the concept of any man--be it a wealthy movie producer/stockbroker/Japanese businessman or an unemployed crackhead looking for a $5 half-and-half--actually paying Tori Spelling for sex is laughable in itself.
Apparently, I'm not the only person who feels this way, as I got an email a couple days ago from a random Razzyphile who I'll call SlavinLabor, because she has nothing nice to say about her job (I can't blame her...it seems like she works in a lab somewhere, and furthermore, that lab has an absolutely insufferable moron condescending to everyone about his skills with a flow cytometer constantly. I can relate...that sucks.)
From: SlavinLabor (slabor@horribleacademiclab.edu)Amen, SlavinLabor. I couldn't have douchebagged her better myself, except that maybe I would have gone even further pointing out her resemblance to a humped ungulate with some pictures.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Fridays are important to me for a couple of reasons:
1. Friday afternoon at four marks the longest amount of time during the week that I won't have to see asshole sub-par co-workers of mine.
2. It's the day my People magazine arrives.
I usually spend a good amount of time devouring the magazine on Saturday and since it was raining and the dog got me up early for no particular reason other than to shop for a place to poo in the pouring rain therefore assuring I got soaked while she managed to stay drier than me under the umbrella (btw LOVED the pictures of CHINGY! in his Deadliest Catch gear--love Deadliest Catch all the way around) I got started on my People magazine a little bit earlier than usual.
I threw up a little bit in my mouth when this week's cover story is butt-fuck ugly ass Tori Spelling spilling little tid-bits about her forthcoming "tell all" (i.e. she "told all" to some ghostwriter because she's too dumb to put two words together to form a complete sentence) entitled: "sTori Telling" yet another cute play on her name not un-like her 10 episode long "So NoToriOus" series that ran on VH1 a couple of years back. Seriously, she needs to stop with the fucking play on words
with her name. There she was on the cover of my People with her genetically mutated kid who I'm sure she whored out for some dinero because, as I learned later on in the article, she's flat broke, pushing out her pregnant belly for the whole world to see therefore proclaiming, "Look, my husband has definitely had sex with me at least twice, he was probably drunk both times".
I did learn a couple important Bev-Niner related facts in the article that I thought I'd pass on to you:
1. She fucked Brian Austin Green, best white rapper ever, in real life on and off for a couple of years.
2. She confirmed the boob job and fucked up nose job that we've all known she's had but she finally just admitted to. She regrets the boobs, not the nose. Really?
3. As confirmed via picture, Shannen Doherty, a "bad influence," did the deed with Mark Wahlberg during his "Marky Mark" days.
4. (My personal favorite) Luke Perry's nickname for her was: "Camel" because, according to her "she has really long eyelashes". O.K. she's in major denial here. Did Dylan every confirm that or is that just her coming up on the only positive spin for why someone would call another person Camel? Maybe it could be because she rocked the camel toe so much in those Donna Martin outfits or because her face looks not unlike a camel's? I mean, really, is that the best plastic surgery Daddy could afford?
I also learned through the fascinating article that her Mom hated her from pretty much the moment she popped her out of that vadge of hers (maybe she took one look at her and wanted to put her back in). She openly cheated on that poor first husband of hers and had ZERO regret the morning after plus made her therapist tell him the marriage was over. She cried when she learned Daddy only gave her a cool million in the will because "he had no sense of money--he would spend a million dollars on a necklace for my mother" (wouldn't that give him a sense of money?), she loves her new husband that she met on some Lifetime movie set, they have some crap bed and breakfast. Blah, blah, blah.
Thought I'd pass those facts along to you and if you're looking for someone to Douchebag this week, I'd highly recommend Tori Spelling--she has (insert sad violin music here), after all, had to learn to live without the days when they close the Rodeo Drive stores for her so she can pop 50K in one sitting. I mean, does she really expect us to feel sorry for her? And more importantly, does she really expect us to read her book?
I'm so over her. From the minute she told us that she had to audition for her role on Bev Niner, just like everyone else, I've been over her.
Keep on doing what you do.
Truly, Joe Camel is more sexually appealing than Tori, and it's pretty sad when you'd rather fuck a nefarious humanized animal cartoon character designed to trick children into smoking than a chick in lingerie spreading her legs. I think Tori definitely misunderstood Luke Perry's nickname for her, although I must to commend her for having enough knowledge of camel biology to attribute this moniker to "long eyelashes." Maybe that is how Tori hoodwinked Brian Austin Green into sticking her for a couple years. I can't think of a better explanation other than her blinding him with science for his porking her when his potential for choice pussy-getting is so inexplicably high (he traded up for Tiffani-Amber Thiessen after Tori, had a bastard son with Vanessa Marcil, and now is engaged to the undisputably hot Megan Fox). For such a monumental dumbass, Tori is paradoxically one crafty camel.
Labels: Bev Niner, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, Razzyphiles, sluts, you're ugly
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Nerds run the rap snacks game
TAFKAMA is on fire in the Razzification department these days. He remembered clearly the time that we were quaffing many Vitamin R tallboys at the bar by his apartment with our buddy Morrissey'sHair, who purchased a couple bags of Rap Snacks ("the official snack of hip-hop") for us to enjoy.
Unfortunately, we didn't really enjoy them. Both the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk BBQ and the Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts were underwhelming, so we didn't finish them. Apparently, however, some people did like the YoungBloodZ flavor, or at least purported to in this amusing video (complete with the theme music from "Doogie Howser, M.D.")that TAFKAMA dug up:
I would be completely unsurprised if Rap Snacks was really run by a couple of nerds with duct taped glasses, because if there's one thing geeks can do well, it's create fictional personas that elevate their coolness via the internets. I've seen about ten million MySpace and Facebook pages belonging to people who I KNOW are huge geeks in real life that make themselves out to be player-ass pimps via their online profiles. In fact, one of them is writing this very blog post. So it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a bunch of mathlete "Battlestar Galactica" fans are the crunkdafied minds behind Rap Snacks.
And I wonder if it's true that the YoungBloodZ rap snacks have really been discontinued. I'm not surprised, because they were pretty fucking gross. The fact that Warren G Cheezie Nacho flavor hasn't been resurrected, however, is a crime. That flavor regulated.
Unfortunately, we didn't really enjoy them. Both the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk BBQ and the Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts were underwhelming, so we didn't finish them. Apparently, however, some people did like the YoungBloodZ flavor, or at least purported to in this amusing video (complete with the theme music from "Doogie Howser, M.D.")that TAFKAMA dug up:
I would be completely unsurprised if Rap Snacks was really run by a couple of nerds with duct taped glasses, because if there's one thing geeks can do well, it's create fictional personas that elevate their coolness via the internets. I've seen about ten million MySpace and Facebook pages belonging to people who I KNOW are huge geeks in real life that make themselves out to be player-ass pimps via their online profiles. In fact, one of them is writing this very blog post. So it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a bunch of mathlete "Battlestar Galactica" fans are the crunkdafied minds behind Rap Snacks.
And I wonder if it's true that the YoungBloodZ rap snacks have really been discontinued. I'm not surprised, because they were pretty fucking gross. The fact that Warren G Cheezie Nacho flavor hasn't been resurrected, however, is a crime. That flavor regulated.
Labels: gluttony, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Morrissey'sHair, Mullah AntoniHo, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Bitch jacked my car
Yesterday my buddy The Artist Formerly Known as Mullah AntoniHo (TAFKAMA) was driving around Seattle. Judging by the picture, it looks like he was going to buy some new certified pre-owned jeans at the Salvation Army, when he noticed the personalized license plate on the car in front of him. He resourcefully snapped a pic with his camera phone and sent it right on to me.
I suspect the "B" stands for "bitch" or "blog," because it's obvious that this SHOULD BE my car. For all the hard work I put in here at RAZZY.org, and at my day job as a science nerd, the least that the fates could do to reward my efforts is hook me up with a Porsche rocking the world's sexiest personalized license plate. I certainly hope that car wasn't being driven by a certain comb-over-sporting failed country singer who I challenged and eventually defeated in a contest for supremacy at Google searches for "Razzy." In fact, my useless bullshit owned Razzy Bailey so hard that his site isn't even on the internets anymore. I win again and as usual! Therefore, if this is Razzy Bailey's car (and WHY did that fucker move from Nashville to my home state in the beautiful P-N-Dub?), he had better hand it over complete with Razzified vanity plate, lest he infringe on my position as the online world's most dominant Razzy.
That Porsche is mine.
That Porsche is mine.
Labels: driving, I LOVE IT, Mullah AntoniHo, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Daily Douchebag: Star magazine
DOB: sired by Rupert Murdoch in 1974
Occupation: printing the world's most outrageously false celebrity gossip (well, next to News of the World, anyway)
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: As far as the gossip rags go, Star is probably the most unbelievable and ridiculous. Look at this week's cover above. Of the three stories there, the only one I buy is that J. Lo was a high-maintenance pain in the ass while popping out her corpse babies on Long Island last week. Star has been reporting the engagement of Brangelina for two years now, so I hardly think that this time around Brad Pitt really is going to make an honest sanctimonious media whore out of Angelina Jolie. Even less believable is that the legendary Ms. Britney Spears is pregnant with Adnan Ghalib's bastard. For one thing, calling a "bump alert" on Brit-Brit isn't breaking news, considering she's been building that FUPA with massive volumes of Starbucks, Cheetos, and Taco Bell for the past year and a half. We all saw it fully uncovered during Britney's VMA performance last fall, and it's common knowledge that Britney's belly contains the residue of countless Frappuccinos rather than a developing fetus. For another, "Brit's revenge on Jamie-Lynn"? Even if Britney is knocked up rather than just bloated as usual, how is that somehow meting out vengeance against her younger white trash sister? I guess Jamie-Lynn stole the media circus from Britney for all of one week when she whored out her sordid tale of teen pregnancy to OK! magazine, but otherwise, I can't think of any reason why Britney would be thirsty for payback against her little sis.
Granted, I read plenty of unsubstantiated celebrity gossip. I don't get too bent out of shape when Perez Hilton or Michael K. from Dlisted report something that turns out to be untrue, so why should I hold Star to a higher standard? Simply put, I don't have to pay to read fake shit on the internets, while Star wants me to fork over $3.50 for it! That is BULLSHIT. I shouldn't have to pay to read fabricated scandal--no matter how tantalizing--when I can get the same product for free. Also, as long as they're going to make things up, how about some variety? I've been hearing this same tired "Brad and Angelina are finally getting married" and "Britney is pregnant/suicidal/married/etc." from them practically every week. These stories are older and more used than a middle-aged Tijuana hooker. Come up with some new conjecture, already. In the meantime, I'm so NOT buying a copy of Star.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, I'm Not Buying It, media whores, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Michael Gambon and Tilda Swinton (tie)
DOB: October 19, 1940 and November 5, 1960, respectively
Occupation: acclaimed thespians; true players for real
Hometown: Dublin, Ireland and London, England respectively
Current residence: London, England and Naim, Scotland, respectively
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Sure, these much-lauded (and now in Tilda's case, Oscar winning) masters of the theatrical craft seem like they probably spend most of their spare time taking tea and crumpets and other activities that buttoned-up British people do. However, don't let their looks deceive you: these two are straight players who run their stables with more aptitude than even Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, Don Magic Juan, or other pimps of legend. Both of them have homes and spouses, and keep a hot younger piece on the side.
Michael has proved that playing a gay wizard in no way prevents him from enthusiastically loving the ladies in real life. He's married to Lady Anne Gambon, his loving wife of 45 years. He also lives in a bachelor flat close to the boudoir of his 42-year-old mistress Philippa Hart. Tilda lives with her baby daddy and their twins, but spends her down time traversing the world with her 29-year-old Kiwi boyfriend Sandro Kopp. She even left the old ball and chain back in Scotland and brought her younger fucktoy to the Oscars with her this year! According to Tilda, they are all the bestest of friends.
I like these two because they are both improbably hot, and are working that to their full advantage. Normally I don't dig on shaggy old men like Michael because, in the words of T-Pain, he's "wrinkly and got too much hair...I don't like hair in my mouth." Also, my taste in women is limited to lipstick lesbo blondes rather than androgynous would-be David Bowie impersonators. However, both Michael and Tilda are what my friend Rack calls "ugly sexy". By normal estimation, these two should be considered unattractive, but there's a certain intangible hotness to them. Having copious quantities of "ugly sexiness" is likely why they're both able to nail extramarital side pieces several decades younger. Well, either that or Philippa Hart is crazy about Harry Potter and Sandro Kopp was smitten with that hot chain-mail dress number Tilda Swinton wore during the battle scene from The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. I thought that movie sucked, but I perked up immediately when she showed up clad in fur and metal to open a can of swords and evil magic all over some leonine allegorical Christian ass. Tilda Swinton hadn't done much to sway my attention before that, but once I got a gander of that outfit, I was all for breaking me off a piece of battle-ready White Witch.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harry Potter, hot chicks, hot dudes, movies, sluts
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Daily Everything: More Classics
Well, I'm hung over again. I have got to quit drinking scotch on Tuesday nights. The trouble is that on Tuesdays I always go to this bar where not only is the bartender this fly honey who I'd hit in a hot second, he works the Razzy flirting angle hard and gives me free shots. Last night, he and I did at least three Jack Daniels shots together. That's three whiskey shots in addition to the bottomless glass of Johnnie Walker that hot bartender kept topping off. Since I just hit snooze for the last three hours and am thus now running late, instead of brilliant novel Razzification, I'm just going to provide links to greatest hits from days of yore. Enjoy, bitches!
Magicians should do what they do best and DISAPPEAR I hate Criss Angel, David Blaine, and David Copperfield
Lord of the Douche Michael Flatley is an embarrassment to the land of Erin
The World's Ten Most Unfuckable Rock Stars Oh, yes, John Mayer is on this list
A suggestion for John Mayer: grow a penis Speaking of John Mayer being an unfuckable pussy...
Daily Douchebag: Mystery (by LL Cool Jew) Misogyny is not a sure-fire way to get laid with myself or LL Cool Jew
Three's company Threesomes rule
De-Colonize this Columbia undergrads are just as stupid as dumb Smith bitches back in my day
Vintage Razzy: the Marine in the airport bathroom I'm a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor
Dumping TWOD: a cautionary tale Why I am afraid of commitment
Behold...the world's most embarrassing lesbian Her name is Rosie O'Donnell
Tania Derveaux is my kind of skank 40,000 blowjobs is the greatest campaign promise in the history of Belgian politics
Prospective swingers will be disappointed My hometown is not overflowing with hot, easy skanks
People vs. Robert Sylvester Kelly: Razzy rules I should have gone to law school
Daily Dude I Want to Hit:Ian Ziering Steve Sanders Hottest dude on planet Earth
My last will and testament Making like BTO and taking care of business
Lord of the Douche Michael Flatley is an embarrassment to the land of Erin
The World's Ten Most Unfuckable Rock Stars Oh, yes, John Mayer is on this list
A suggestion for John Mayer: grow a penis Speaking of John Mayer being an unfuckable pussy...
Daily Douchebag: Mystery (by LL Cool Jew) Misogyny is not a sure-fire way to get laid with myself or LL Cool Jew
Three's company Threesomes rule
De-Colonize this Columbia undergrads are just as stupid as dumb Smith bitches back in my day
Vintage Razzy: the Marine in the airport bathroom I'm a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor
Dumping TWOD: a cautionary tale Why I am afraid of commitment
Behold...the world's most embarrassing lesbian Her name is Rosie O'Donnell
Tania Derveaux is my kind of skank 40,000 blowjobs is the greatest campaign promise in the history of Belgian politics
Prospective swingers will be disappointed My hometown is not overflowing with hot, easy skanks
People vs. Robert Sylvester Kelly: Razzy rules I should have gone to law school
Daily Dude I Want to Hit:
My last will and testament Making like BTO and taking care of business
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, Razzification
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A gaggle of CHONGAY!s
You know how sometimes, when you're just about to wake up, you incorporate things from reality into the tail end of whatever dream you're having? This usually happens to me when my alarm starts going off, and I that horrible REE!-REE!-REE! alarm sound finds its way into my dream as a fire alarm or air raid siren or some other similarly disquieting noise, until I finally wake up and realize that it's something even more horrible: time to wake up. Well, this happened to me this morning, except I actually was jarred from slumber before my alarm went off. I dreamed I was gazing out my window in lab (dreaming about lab is a nightmare in itself) at saw flocks of Canadian geese practically blocking out the sun.
While some people might think that dreaming of migrating birds is pleasant, this was just as bad as amalgamating my clock radio with my sleeping subconscious. For starters, I'm from the P-N-Dub, and Canadian geese are as bad as fucking roaches. They're even meaner and more vicious than regular geese, and they shit EVERYWHERE. The Canadian geese situation is so severe in the P-N-Dub that there are literally Canadian goose death squads which go out with shotguns to thin the population enough to prevent them from taking over every golf course and public park in the entire Pacific Northwest. Generally, geese, swans, and other long-necked fowl in general are assholes. They honk and bite and will fuck you up if you get too close to them. Seeing the sky filled with geese reminds me more of a scene from The Birds than a pleasant experience. Furthermore, this dream reminded me of taking vertebrate biology in college. We were given several assignments to go out birdwatching and identify the various birds we saw flying around the Smith campus. I found these exercises so unbelievably boring that I'd usually just get stoned, sit by the pond, and make up sightings of birds from the Birds of Western Massachusetts handout the professor gave us. There is no joy in straining one's neck looking for a bunch of dumb birds flapping around, laying eggs, regurgitating vomit into their chicks' mouths, and whatever else dumb birds do to occupy their time.
Anyway, I woke up from this half-asleep dream to realize the source of inspiration for this geese-clouded nightmare. Guess what it was? OF COURSE it was Chingy!, softly honking with each contented snore right in my ear. That little SOB was probably dreaming about eating homeless guy shit in the park or something else he considers relaxing and fun. Truly, if there's anything more starkly terrifying than a swarm of Canadian geese invading Washington Heights, it's this:
Canadian geese got nothin' next to Chingy! when it comes to being fucking assholes. If I ever look out my lab window and see a sight like this, I'll just pray that these winged Chingy!s land in New Jersey, because that flying V would be more destructive and deadly than the Cloverfield monster if unleashed in the city.
CHONGAY CHONG, sweet dreams and migratory birds!
Canadian geese got nothin' next to Chingy! when it comes to being fucking assholes. If I ever look out my lab window and see a sight like this, I'll just pray that these winged Chingy!s land in New Jersey, because that flying V would be more destructive and deadly than the Cloverfield monster if unleashed in the city.
CHONGAY CHONG, sweet dreams and migratory birds!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, NYC, oh the horror, sexy delicious animals
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: plaintiff R.O.
RAZZY Note: This isn't R.O., as his identity is a mystery due to his minor status. Since I couldn't get a picture of the real deal, I just Googled "asshole kid" and this is one of the pictures that popped up.
Name: R.O.
DOB: 1996? (JESUS CHRIST, I am old...that's the year I graduated high school)
Occupation: expelled eighth grader, hilarious kid
Hometown: Parma, Ohio
Current residence: Parma, Ohio
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: OBVIOUSLY, I'm not trying to do the nasty with an eighth grader. In fact, if I were to even pretend I wanted to do such a thing, it would probably only be a clever ruse to meet hot predator catcher Chris Hansen. I've written this off as a strategy for meeting Chris, however, since he doesn't usually take the predators he catches out for a fancy dinner followed by dirty sex. Also, I generally hate children, so there's no way I have the capacity for even considering having sex with anyone under the age of 18. In fact, after disastrous rolls in the hay with some younger men (in their early twenties) recently, I'm not sure I ever want to sleep with anyone under the age of 30. However, my own immeasurable biases against younger people aside, I couldn't let this kid's hotness go unnoticed.
R.O. decided to get back at his mean middle school principal by posting a fake MySpace profile. In said profile, he describes the principal's interests as "giving students anal" and "jacking off in my office," claimed he "also fucked my assistant principal Heidi Zimmerman," listed his favorite movies as "gay porn," and claimed his heroes are "Michael Jackson, Adolf Hitler, Saddam Husain (sic), and my purple penatrater (sic)."
I have to say, this is pretty damn good material for an eighth grader. When I was in the eighth grade, there was no MySpace, but if there were, I doubt I'd come up with anything as good as saying my enemy's favorite TV show was "Boy Meets Dildo." The term "penetrator" wasn't even in my vocabulary. When I was in grade school, we had to sing a song that was obviously written by some extremely kiss-ass teacher to our principal on "Principal Appreciation Day" or some bullshit like that. It went a little something like this:
Mrs. Milam, she's our gal,
Her husband sells cars better than Cal (her husband owned a car dealership which competed fiercely with a rival Ford dealer owned by a local advertising media whore named Cal Worthington)
"Sorry to interrupt," we hear her say (a reference to her standard greeting over the school PA system)
And then she comes and makes our day.
The best my class could come up with was to change "her husband sells cars better than Cal" to "she's been sleeping in bed with Cal" and "then she comes and makes our day" to "then she comes and ruins our day." That's pretty pathetic that our attempts at satire merely implied Mrs. Milam was having an extramarital affair with Cal Worthington. We obviously missed an untapped gold mine of comedy related to her being a gay pedophile. Kids these days are growing up fast.
Even better is the fact that this kid got booted from school for this prank on grounds of "malicious harassment," and he's suing the school district! Thanks again to court documents posted at The Smoking Gun, I was able to determine that his lawyers are arguing that this MySpace profile "in any way disrupted school or that anyone had taken the content contained in the web site as a serious recitation of defendant Cook's personal characteristics or preferences or that anyone really believed the web site was crated (sic--don't you lawyers have spell check?) by defendant Cook." While normally I root enthusiastically against children, in this case, I'm hoping that this kid gets back into school and gets punitive damages. The "princeypal" should have given him an award for his precocious wit and encouraged his comic talents rather than booting him from school and disrupting his education. Besides, while I'm sure the principal isn't "giving anal to students," he's probably jacked off in his office before. Privacy enabling workplace masturbation is the number one benefit to having an office in the first place!
Furthermore, I applaud R.O. for standing up for his constitutional rights. I think it's bullshit that the principal wanted to trample all over R.O.'s first amendment rights just because it made him look like a homosexual pederast. R.O. shouldn't be denied a public education just for exercising his right to free speech. The last time I checked, the Bill of Rights didn't exclude juvenile jabs at one's principal's sex life. I'm surprised the ACLU isn't on this one. This could set important precedents for civil liberties. I say take it all the way to the Supreme Court!
Seriously, if R.O. wasn't anonymous, I'd offer him a coveted spot as a contributor on RAZZY.org, and that's something he could really brag about. You can ask any of the other occasional writers on here about how hard it is to get a Blogger invite from me. I require writing samples, a full and unabridged CV, and at least ten references...except by "writing samples" I mean an email demanding that I write about something I'm not in the mood to write about, by "full and unabridged CV" I mean that I know you somehow, and by "ten references" I mean we've gotten drunk together. Getting your fake Razzy name on the sidebar is a grueling process more arduous than getting into Harvard without a legacy admission. I've got a spot reserved for R.O. if he ever reveals his true identity.
Labels: armchair barristry, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, intentional buffoonery, kewlness, MySpace
Daily Douchebag: Jose Ortiz
DOB: 1979
Occupation: unabashed Hillary Clinton supporter
Hometown: Upper Providence Township, Pennsylvania
Current residence: Upper Providence Township jail
Douchebaggery: People usually feel very strongly about politics, and this year's presidential race is no exception. Anyone who has seen at least two seconds of cable news can tell you there is no shortage of pundits arguing vehemently about who is better for America: Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. However, as far as I know, the guests on "Hardball" have yet to whip out the razors and start cutting each other up.
Unfortunately for Sean Shurelds, he did not have the calming influence of Chris Matthews to mediate dinner table discussion about the Democratic candidates with his brother-in-law Jose Ortiz. According to the police report on The Smoking Gun, Sean decided to mention that "Barack Obama was trashing Hillary." Although this has been mostly true in the primaries over the last month and Obama is going to put the nails in Hillary's coffin next Tuesday in Texas and Ohio, Jose didn't like hearing it because he is a member of the increasingly rare breed known as Hillary Clinton supporters. He sharply retorted that "Obama was not a realist." This continued and escalated into a full-on brawl, with choking, kicking, and face-punching. Eventually, Jose had enough of Obama's vision for change, and decided to really stick it to Barack Obama's supporters...literally. He stabbed Sean in the stomach and is now cooling his heels in the clink awaiting trial.
This reminds me of why a political discussion is not a good idea for the family dinner table. No good ever comes of it, and there are knives around when simple insults aren't doing the trick anymore. These dudes should have just settled it like Benzo and I do every time I rhapsodize about John McCain. Rather than stabbing me, Benzo just scribes a blog entry rattling off damning statistics about my Straight Talk Express-riding hotness and vigorously defending Obama. There is no need for knives or stabbing weapons of any sort, and thus Benzo and I can both still brag that we've never been arrested for felony assault or attempted murder. In fact, we can both still brag we've never been arrested for anything at all.
Probably the worst part of this political argument between Sean and Jose is that Jose is about to be disenfranchised due to his felony criminal record, and he can't even settle this in the most appropriate manner: by voting. Of course, he probably won't have a chance to vote Hillary since Obama's going to win the nomination, but he could have at least stuck it to Sean by voting for someone besides Obama. Now he won't even get the opportunity to vote for that loser Nader come November. In fact, he'll probably be either serving whatever time is part of his plea bargain or preparing for his criminal trial. What a fucking dumbass.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, family matters, overcompensation, politics
Monday, February 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Young(er) Michael Douglas
DOB: September 25, 1944
Occupation: hot fucking piece and I mean that SERIOUSLY
Hometown: Hollywood, California
Current residence: Pacific Palisades, California, New York, New York, Aspen, Colorado, Bermuda, Majorca, Spain, Swansea, Wales, and Ridgewood, New Jersey.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I saw a little classic footage of Michael Douglas, complete with flowing mullet, racing to the stage to accept his Oscar for Wall Street and caught my breath. Michael Douglas may not have aged well, and all the plastic surgery he's had has somehow made him look even more geriatric, but in the younger part of his middle age, he was a hot piece of ass.
LL Cool Jew was watching the Oscars with me via text message, and I felt compelled to weigh in on this particular memorable Oscar moment. "Young michael douglas was h o t," I texted. She wasn't seeing things my way, unfortunately, but that's probably because she has no taste in men. KIDDING, BigBagel! She replied: "u r a sick individual."
In turn, I replied snippily, "If by sick u mean awesome."
As I said, I realize that geriatric Michael Douglas doesn't have a whole lot of sex appeal, but how can you deny young(er) Michael Douglas's hotness? In Wall Street he managed to actually make sleazebag trader types--who I consider in real life to be one of the most off-putting, boring, detestable, obnoxious species of men ever to wear suits--seem sexy. I'd let him hit it if he were rocking the Gordon Gekko crispy I-mean-business gel-imbued power mullet and suspenders and bitching at me that "lunch is for wimps" any day. And in Fatal Attraction, I can totally see why Glenn Close went so crazy for him, because I'd throw on the Madame Butterfly record and fuck that cheating husband every which way and all over my apartment. Basic Instinct was one of the first R-rated movies that I snuck into, and I still get hot thinking about the sex scenes in that movie. And don't get me started about Michael's role as expatriate treasure-hunting, bird-collecting, international hot piece Jack Colton in Romancing the Stone.
I would not have thought twice about running my fingers through that lush adventure mullet. I would have totally reenacted all kinds of awesome scenes from Romancing the Stone with him. He could wrestle alligators, say things like "one hell of a morning has turned into one bitch of a day!" and "oh, man, the Doobie Brothers broke up!", and slide down a wall of mud and land with his head in my crotch. Somehow this will all have to be done with the sense of urgency that comes with trying to thwart Danny DeVito when he's hot on your trail. You know, it's that whole we-should-fuck-now-because-we-could-die kind of imperative, desperate, survival situation sex...except instead of the threat of death, there's the threat of having a fat, winded, frustrated fat man steal your treasure map. It would be so hot. Seriously, I've seen Romancing the Stone about 80,000 times and I've put a lot of thought into this.
Anyway, I think this proves that I'm not a sick individual. It's perfectly healthy to spend one's time having sexual fantasies about comic adventures through Colombia seeking giant emeralds with a homeless, exiled petty criminal rocking a mullet and a set of dirty khakis. In fact, I wonder about people who DON'T experience arousal when they think about Young(er) Michael Douglas. There's basically no way you can deny Young(er) Michael Douglas's inherent sexiness, and I defy LL Cool Jew to try. I'm not sick! I'm perfectly normal! NORMAL!
I would not have thought twice about running my fingers through that lush adventure mullet. I would have totally reenacted all kinds of awesome scenes from Romancing the Stone with him. He could wrestle alligators, say things like "one hell of a morning has turned into one bitch of a day!" and "oh, man, the Doobie Brothers broke up!", and slide down a wall of mud and land with his head in my crotch. Somehow this will all have to be done with the sense of urgency that comes with trying to thwart Danny DeVito when he's hot on your trail. You know, it's that whole we-should-fuck-now-because-we-could-die kind of imperative, desperate, survival situation sex...except instead of the threat of death, there's the threat of having a fat, winded, frustrated fat man steal your treasure map. It would be so hot. Seriously, I've seen Romancing the Stone about 80,000 times and I've put a lot of thought into this.
Anyway, I think this proves that I'm not a sick individual. It's perfectly healthy to spend one's time having sexual fantasies about comic adventures through Colombia seeking giant emeralds with a homeless, exiled petty criminal rocking a mullet and a set of dirty khakis. In fact, I wonder about people who DON'T experience arousal when they think about Young(er) Michael Douglas. There's basically no way you can deny Young(er) Michael Douglas's inherent sexiness, and I defy LL Cool Jew to try. I'm not sick! I'm perfectly normal! NORMAL!
Labels: aging, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, movies, sex
Daily Douchebag: people who were at the Oscars because WHY?
Names: Jessica Alba, Miley Cyrus, Katherine Heigl
DOB: various
Occupation: inexplicably popular fuckwit actors who aren't good enough to get invited to the Oscars by being nominated for anything, but they get invited anyway
Hometown: various
Current residence: Kodak Theater, Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: It's bad enough that I have to hear about these assholes all the time on the gossip internets, but I thought I could rely on the Oscars to be relatively free of talentless dipshits. All the events and premieres every other day of the year are populated with the likes of Disney Channel stars and skanks from "Grey's Anatomy," but usually at the Oscars they clear out this riffraff in favor of admirable broads like Cate Blanchett, Dame Helen Mirren, and Tilda Swinton. Unfortunately, this year it seemed like there was an excessively lengthy parade of dumb bitches with no good reason whatsoever for being there other than to piss me off: Miley Cyrus, Katherine Heigl, and Jessica Alba were everywhere acting like idiots. What, no invitation for Jessica Simpson, Spencer and Heidi, or the Olsen twins?
I can't even see what the producers' reasoning for bringing these twats onstage was. None of these hookers were associated in any way with a movie actually nominated for an award.Katherine Heigl is an unappealing shrew who thus far has made one comedy movie (unless you count her repertoire of made-for-TV, not-even-good-enough-to-be-a-"SciFi original movie" films), and when she's not stinking up the small screen on "Grey's Anatomy," she's generally nagging and/or whining about something to the press. On this occasion, she did nothing save somehow simultaneously channel the spirits of Meredith Baxter Birney playing Elyse Keaton in "Family Ties", a Christmas decoration, and a call girl from the 80s on her way to get bukkaked by a gang of Japanese businessmen. Not even the cocksucker red lipstick can make her seem like a good time. Jessica Alba was good for pretty much one thing: looking hot. Now that she's pregnant, getting awfully fat in the face, and even more idiotically self-righteous and grouchy than usual, she's managed to achieve total uselessness. And Miley Cyrus? MILEY CYRUS? Since when do the Oscars mandate the presence of Hannah Fucking Montana showing up to mug her deflating blow-up doll face for the cameras on the red carpet? As the Oscars reminded us constantly, there are a billion people watching it, so it's not like they need her to pull in the lucrative tween consumer demographic. I imagine she probably got invited so one of the producers could get their kids tickets to her concert or something. Apparently parents kill each other over these things, so I wouldn't put it past them to invite her ass to the Oscars for the (far inferior to the aborted R. Kelly/Jay-Z tour of the same name) "Best of Both Worlds" show. Still, all these hookers were at the Oscars WHY? It's a sad day for film when Dame Judi Dench has to give up her seat to Jessica Alba.
On the bright side, at least Paris Hilton wasn't there.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, movies, sluts
Friday, February 22, 2008
Yet another straight-to-video horror movie sex tape
For some inexplicable reason, some company (www.GenesSecret.com) is trying to sell a sex tape of Gene Simmons banging some model broad. Apparently this is scandalous because Gene Simmons is common law married to Shannon Tweed, and even though he runs around constantly talking about how many chicks he's porked over the years, we're supposed to be surprised that he's cheating with this low-rent skank who probably spends those rare occasions that her work doesn't involve roller skating around with overpriced plates of subpar chicken wings reclining against a Toyota Supra with a ridiculous spoiler on it somewhere like Dayton, Ohio, Scranton, Pennsylvania, Boise, Idaho, Jonesboro, Arkansas or Tacoma, Washington. That's not something I've ever wanted to see.
The few times I've watched "Gene Simmons' Family Jewels" on A&E, I could only think about what an asshole Gene Simmons seems like. He comes across as a real dick. My ex-boyfriend told me that he's waited on him before at the fancy restaurant he works at and he IS, in fact, a real dick. Gene Simmons has this insufferable sense of superiority and self-righteousness that makes me want to grab him by his shagged-out Prince Valiant haircut and say, "SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOU ARE ONLY FAMOUS FOR WEARING GAY-ASS BAT OUTFITS AND STICKING OUT YOUR TONGUE, ASSHOLE!" Speaking of his tongue, as a woman who very much enjoys receiving oral sex, I'm not all that impressed. I've never noticed that a long tongue really improves much one way or the other from a technical standpoint. It's not like you need to really reach to find the clit. That tongue is mainly useful for posturing and theatrics. Furthermore, Gene's tongue is irrelevant because I'm pretty sure that he rarely, if ever, goes down on the nameless sluts he hits on the side. He seems like the type of asshole who just unzips his fly, sticks his crotch in your face, and expects you to do the math. If you're lucky, when you're done blowing him, he'll consent to bless your vadge with his probably shriveled weiner, but dude isn't going downtown. He's Gene Simmons, and there's sufficient cheap beer spokesmodel-type whores willing to suck him off that he doesn't need to waste time trying to endear himself to random bitches with cunnilingus.
Sure enough, this video doesn't advertise any scenes where Gene's kissing the cat. In fact, it seems pretty boring. I'd rather fall asleep than rub one off to a long-haired, geriatric fucktard with a shirt on tiredly rutting away on a forgettable blonde on a nanny cam. Boooooooorrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggg. I also really hate it when guys leave their shirts on during sex. Unless you're somewhere not conducive to full disrobing, like a park, a beach, a bar bathroom, or your office, there's no excuse for leaving one's t-shirt on during coitus. There's certainly no reason why Gene couldn't throw that on the floor next to his pants at the Best Western or Holiday Inn Express that put him up for whatever car show he met this chick at.
I'm not very surprised that Gene Simmons, rather than have a sense of humor about it or be relieved that his sex tape is so tame, is now frantically submitting legal threats to everyone on the internets who has opined about this matter. Good thing RAZZY.org isn't a "legitimate" blog (according to Splash News reader Denise in comment #1198 on this Tom Brady thread, it's "more of a singular let's see how many times I can say BJ, fuck, etc."), so hopefully I will dodge any stern cease-and-desist correspondence from Gene's attorneys.
Gene is pretty uptight for someone who became famous flapping around a stage with a mouthful of fire and fake blood, especially considering what an absolutely soporific and unengaging sex tape this is. I really don't think he needs to worry about losing a substantial amount of money to whoever is distributing this tape without his consent. Gene is probably just pissed that the few people depraved enough to actually pay to watch this will do so with the same sense of fascinated revulsion that they felt while watching such sex tapes of legend as Tom Sizemore's and Dustin "Screech" Diamond's rather than awe or arousal. He's gross and I'd rather rub one off to a tape of the officiating in Super Bowl XL than a creepy old man nailing some over-Mystic Tanned illiterate skank with bolt-on tits and a probable case of the clap. In fact, I'd rather get the clap myself than watch this sex tape. Presumably at least getting it would be more fun than watching Gene Simmons doing so.
The few times I've watched "Gene Simmons' Family Jewels" on A&E, I could only think about what an asshole Gene Simmons seems like. He comes across as a real dick. My ex-boyfriend told me that he's waited on him before at the fancy restaurant he works at and he IS, in fact, a real dick. Gene Simmons has this insufferable sense of superiority and self-righteousness that makes me want to grab him by his shagged-out Prince Valiant haircut and say, "SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOU ARE ONLY FAMOUS FOR WEARING GAY-ASS BAT OUTFITS AND STICKING OUT YOUR TONGUE, ASSHOLE!" Speaking of his tongue, as a woman who very much enjoys receiving oral sex, I'm not all that impressed. I've never noticed that a long tongue really improves much one way or the other from a technical standpoint. It's not like you need to really reach to find the clit. That tongue is mainly useful for posturing and theatrics. Furthermore, Gene's tongue is irrelevant because I'm pretty sure that he rarely, if ever, goes down on the nameless sluts he hits on the side. He seems like the type of asshole who just unzips his fly, sticks his crotch in your face, and expects you to do the math. If you're lucky, when you're done blowing him, he'll consent to bless your vadge with his probably shriveled weiner, but dude isn't going downtown. He's Gene Simmons, and there's sufficient cheap beer spokesmodel-type whores willing to suck him off that he doesn't need to waste time trying to endear himself to random bitches with cunnilingus.
Sure enough, this video doesn't advertise any scenes where Gene's kissing the cat. In fact, it seems pretty boring. I'd rather fall asleep than rub one off to a long-haired, geriatric fucktard with a shirt on tiredly rutting away on a forgettable blonde on a nanny cam. Boooooooorrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggg. I also really hate it when guys leave their shirts on during sex. Unless you're somewhere not conducive to full disrobing, like a park, a beach, a bar bathroom, or your office, there's no excuse for leaving one's t-shirt on during coitus. There's certainly no reason why Gene couldn't throw that on the floor next to his pants at the Best Western or Holiday Inn Express that put him up for whatever car show he met this chick at.
Labels: assholes, gross, oh the horror, porn, sex, sluts, threats, TV, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Hepatitis A virus
Taxonomy: Family Picornaviridae, Genus Hepatovirus
Baltimore classification: IV (plus-sense single-stranded RNA)
DOB: N/A
Occupation: replicating like what, embarrassing snotty clubs by spreading around them via the oral-fecal route
Hometown: in this case, New York, New York
Current residence: hopefully in Ashton Kutcher and friends's hepatocytes
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I always get excited when viruses make the news, especially a virus from the most awesome yet unsung family in the entire virome: Picornaviridae, baby! I am glad whenever a cousin of my lab's study focus (polio and rhinovirus...both picornaviruses) garners some press attention, especially when said attention is for doing something totally awesome like ruining Ashton Kutcher's 30th birthday party.
Apparently, Ashton decided to throw a bash for all his celebrity friends at New York City's club Socialista, and didn't know that the bartender just came back from a vacation in Honduras. Unbeknownst to him, the barkeep brought an unidentified hepatotropic friend back with him, and thanks to Socialista's lack of hand soap in the bathroom, distributed said friend to all his patrons when he returned from yet another bout of diarrhea in the men's room and didn't properly wash his hands. Thanks to the sick bartender's inability to follow basic hygiene practices now Ashton, Demi Moore, Bruce Willis, Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Salma Hayek, and Roberto Cavalli are enjoying symptoms like jaundiced skin and eyes, fever, nausea, abdominal pain, vomiting, and diarrhea. It's like the host gift that keeps on giving.
I also love that this Socialista joint didn't have hand soap in the bathroom. It seems like one of these pricey, snotty, banker-infested, overly exclusive New York places that I generally loathe, like Marquee or Lotus. It also seems like the kind of place that has an army of bathroom attendants who you have to tip every time you take a piss and they just give you a paper towel when you get out of the can. I hate bathroom attendants, because I always feel bad not tipping them as I am sure they work hard and need every dollar they can get, but I can wash my hands myself! Besides, if I'm trying to do something I'd like more privacy for--such as sniffing certain powdered substances, engaging in some kind of drunken sex act, or having a confidential talk with someone--it's annoying to have a bathroom attendant hanging around eavesdropping. I think it's awesome that Socialista's bathroom attendant managed to somehow tend to the guests without providing them with hand soap, the dispensal of which is, from a public health perspective, the most important bathroom attendant job. Now Socialista has a sticky public relations situation to deal with in the form of explaining why their high-end, VIP establishment was smeared with what the health inspector is calling "widespread contamination with trace amounts of fecal matter." Gross!
This just goes to show that picornaviruses are not to be trifled with, and the world needs to be reminded of this. Sometimes I hear people speaking disparagingly of polio (since it's "cured"--which it's not, nor is it eradicated) or my personal beloved/despised obligate intracellular parasite in these taxa, rhinovirus, because it "just causes colds." Hepatitis A virus gets similarly diminished in terms of importance and worth. I guess people care more about the (non-picornavirus, and therefore considerably less sexy) hepatitis B and hepatitis C viruses because they are sexually transmitted and cause chronic infection and liver disease. Please. Hepadnaviridae and Flaviviridae are totally lame virus families compared to the sexy infectious hotness of the Picornaviridae. So what if Pam Anderson has hepatitis C? Hepatitis A just tore through half of Hollywood, and with far more star wattage. Madonna and Bruce Willis trump Pam Anderson any day. You just got owned, Flaviviridae! HA!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, epidemic geekery, nerd alert, science, viruses rule
Daily Douchebag: Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag AGAIN
DOB: August 1983 and September 15, 1986, respectively
Occupation: consummate media whores, masters of self-delusion
Hometown: Santa Monica, California and Crested Butte, Colorado, respectively
Current residence: West Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: JerseyGirl is on fire with the douchebagging. Yesterday she sent me the following article from In Touch Weekly along with the comment "DAILY DOUCHEBAGS?":
Spencer Pratt: Heidi is the Next MadonnaPrepping for worldwide fame? World tour? Who and the what now? At one point, I would have been embarrassed to admit that I watch "The Hills" and know all about Spencer and Heidi. However, then I realized that I'm by no means alone in doing so. There are plenty of other official, card-carrying grownups who get secretly excited when they flip over to MTV and hear Natasha Bedingfield singing about releasing inhibitions and feeling the rain on your skin. There are plenty of other losers who spend their time wondering about pointless bullshit like why Lauren Conrad has more wrinkles and crow's feet around her eyes than me despite being only 21, whether or not the ring Spencer gave Heidi for their now-defunct engagement was real (certainly the tits he gave her weren't), and whether Audrina is actually the dumbest human being employed at Epic Records, much less extant on the planet. All my fellow "Hills"-watching losers are undoubtedly thus reacting the same way to Spencer's assertions about the meteoric rise of Heidi Montag from obscurity: with a great deal of harsh and emphatic scoffing.
Reality show players-turned super couple Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt won’t settle for being a sideshow on The Hills. Wannabe pop star Heidi, 21, is prepping for worldwide fame as she moves forward from her homemade music video, “Higher,” to her next professionally mastered single, which is being recorded this month. “The next thing is to really focus on her new music and get her onstage and on a world tour,” Spencer, 24, who is also Heidi’s manager, tells In Touch. Although Heidi considers herself an original act, she plans to take performance cues from some of the world biggest superstars, like Britney Spears, Madonna and Michael Jackson, says Spencer.
“What we want for Heidi is for her to perform like they do,” Spencer reveals to In Touch. “She could have these huge, unbelievable, explosive performances, with pyrotechnics and lots of costume changes.
“Heidi isn’t going to let what people say stop her from being a huge star,” Spencer tells In Touch.
When Spencer says things about Heidi like "huge, unbelievable, explosive performances" and "huge star," I really can't wait for next season of "The Hills" just to see Spencer making these kind of statements in real life (or at least meticulously scripted real life). If Heidi is the next Madonna, then I'm the next Jesus Christ, and hearing Spencer actually saying such hilarious absurdity would really be knee-slapping, gasping for breath, side-clutching, howling-with-laughter funny. That means that maybe we'll be lucky enough to see footage of Heidi in the studio laying down some tracks with Spencer producing, a musical collaboration on par with a cat in heat joining forces with screeching audio feedback to make a pop album. Any studio time with Heidi is going to make "The Ashlee Simpson Show" seem like a study in the making of a masterpiece on par with Beethoven's Ninth. Truly, Kevin Federline's album (which sold a whopping 16,000 copies) probably looks like a multi-platinum record compared to anything Heidi and Spencer could produce. A shit-throwing rhesus macaque could probably make a better record.
MARCH 24th--premiere of "The Hills" season four--cannot come fast enough.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, media whores, sluts, The Hills, TV
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Memory Lane
It's that point in the week where I'm overworked and underinspired, so rather than just make a lame excuse for why I'm not as prolific as usual today, I figured I would just provide some links to great Razzy moments of lore. That way new Razzyphiles can sift through the over 1,000 posts (!) I've written over the past two and a half years, and old Razzyphiles can wax nostalgic about where they were, who they were with, and what they were doing when they read it. Kind of like my Grandma remembered where she was when she heard Pearl Harbor got bombed, or my parents remember where they were when JFK was shot, or how I remember that I was in my living room in Tacoma when my ex-boyfriend called to tell me to turn on the TV on 9/11...except in a good way. I guess it isn't really a great selling point to compare my (totally unimpeachably awesome) website to Pearl Harbor, Kennedy's assassination, or 9/11, but you get the point. RAZZY.org is life-changing, and I'm pleased to be providing such a monumentally important useless bullshit service for your enjoyment and edification. So please enjoy some of my favorites from days past in no particular order:
Much like the Tenth Plague, I'll pass over your sorry ass The agony and the ecstasy of drunken facials
Jamie Foxx is a predictable asshole and Robert Sylvester Kelly is the world's greatest
The lousiest lays, vol. 1 Multiple penis piercings and the vaginas that hate them
The lousiest lays, vol. 2 The smallest penis I've ever seen
Razzy: Modern Artiste My first and only Dadaist exhibition
Razzy: Pissing off officious Smith bitches since 1996 The initial skirmish which erupted into the Tej Offensive
Don't blame Canada. BOMB Canada. U! S! A! U! S! A!
Razzy Haters' Ball Haters, they want to hate
Attention old women with rotten vaginas: I'm no longer your gym whipping bitch My first terrifying encounter with Twat-Washer
Q: What's grosser than gross? A. CHONGAY CHONG
Building a mystery Dildos don't just get up and walk out of your bedside drawer
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat Lindsay Lohan is totally a muff diver
I'm a Sig girl Sig Hansen is the hotness and I won't rest until everyone agrees with me
Herr Doktor, put down your copy of Mein Kampf and give me my fucking contact prescription If you happen to get your eyes checked at Columbia, don't go see Dr. Rainer Mittl
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays Bitches named "K8" are not to be trusted
From the Smith College vault: Razzy gets busted for possession Hey, kids, don't do drugs or candles, and definitely don't piss off your fat, uptight lesbian residence coordinator at a party where you're doing either
Licking snatch for dummies And speaking of Smith College...
One tequila, Two tequila, Tila Tequila...WHORE Bitch stole my reality show
Anyway, enjoy. I'll be back in full motherfuckin' effizect tomorrow. Try to endure until then. Godspeed.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Much like the Tenth Plague, I'll pass over your sorry ass The agony and the ecstasy of drunken facials
Jamie Foxx is a predictable asshole and Robert Sylvester Kelly is the world's greatest
The lousiest lays, vol. 1 Multiple penis piercings and the vaginas that hate them
The lousiest lays, vol. 2 The smallest penis I've ever seen
Razzy: Modern Artiste My first and only Dadaist exhibition
Razzy: Pissing off officious Smith bitches since 1996 The initial skirmish which erupted into the Tej Offensive
Don't blame Canada. BOMB Canada. U! S! A! U! S! A!
Razzy Haters' Ball Haters, they want to hate
Attention old women with rotten vaginas: I'm no longer your gym whipping bitch My first terrifying encounter with Twat-Washer
Q: What's grosser than gross? A. CHONGAY CHONG
Building a mystery Dildos don't just get up and walk out of your bedside drawer
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat Lindsay Lohan is totally a muff diver
I'm a Sig girl Sig Hansen is the hotness and I won't rest until everyone agrees with me
Herr Doktor, put down your copy of Mein Kampf and give me my fucking contact prescription If you happen to get your eyes checked at Columbia, don't go see Dr. Rainer Mittl
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays Bitches named "K8" are not to be trusted
From the Smith College vault: Razzy gets busted for possession Hey, kids, don't do drugs or candles, and definitely don't piss off your fat, uptight lesbian residence coordinator at a party where you're doing either
Licking snatch for dummies And speaking of Smith College...
One tequila, Two tequila, Tila Tequila...WHORE Bitch stole my reality show
Anyway, enjoy. I'll be back in full motherfuckin' effizect tomorrow. Try to endure until then. Godspeed.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, internet domination, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Leonora Epstein
Name: Leonora Epstein
DOB: August 30, 1985
Occupation: "sex" blogger (sex in quotes because she rarely seems to have any) and web assistant at Cosmopolitan magazine
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, Jersey Girl sent me an e-mail:
From: JerseyGirl--Smith '02 (jgirl@thirdmostwatchedcablenewsnetwork.com)I checked it out, and indeed JerseyGirl was right. This blog features Leo Epstein (Smith '07 and classmate of the loathsome Tej Bindra)--a 22-year-old whippersnapper working as some kind of editorial assistant at my favorite magazine Cosmopolitan--blogs about her attempts to transform from a "socially awkward" dowdy Smith girl with an unflattering haircut and bad skin into some kind of cheap young wannabe "Sex and the City" character. This transformation involves her learning how to apply eyeliner (in fairness, I suck at this too), dress sluttier, and string guys along without sex for as many dates as possible. This is even worse than when the now-defunct Jane magazine cast a wide net seeking a dude willing to bone this 29-year-old virgin (Smith '99), because she was desperate to get some dick before she turned 30. I thought that showcase of the standard fugliness, social ineptitude, and severely undersexed loserliness common among Smith grads was some of the worst press my fair alma mater could get in terms of the overall fuckability of its alumnae. Now, thanks to Leo, I know I was wrong.
To: Razzy--Smith '00 (razzy@razzy.org)
Omg dude, check out this link - it's an article about a Smith grad who is now blogging for Cosmo. It makes me embarrased that I went to smith
According to Leo's blog anyway, most of her metamorphosis into a vapid, shoe-obsessed, Cosmo-reading cocktease consists of her dating ugly dudes and refusing to fuck them. This doesn't sit well with ladies like myself and JerseyGirl. If you ask JerseyGirl about how she and her boyfriend Kodiak got together, she'll say something along the lines of "I hit that shit the first night...what, what!" Then she does a little guidette fist pump. As I didn't grow up on the Jersey Shore, I omit the fist pump, but my policy is the same with guys: I always fuck on the first date. It's a good way to get the lay of the land (so to speak) and see if he's a jackhammerer, a shoulder-pusher, a pencil-dick, a one-pump chump, a chapstick, or otherwise problematic between the sheets. Besides, if he doesn't "respect me in the morning" or call me back or whatever, than fuck him. Coming straight out the gate fucking is a useful way to screen out assholes and/or the impotent/inadequately penised, and it hasn't failed me yet. Therefore, I can't relate to bitches like Leo who go with the opposite strategy: withhold as long as possible.
I could barely get through the first few posts in which she talks about her lame boyfriend Josh. After initially complaining that Josh is too old (32) and wondering if it was "immoral" to date other people while she's letting this asshole who SHE ISN'T EVEN FUCKING buy her dinner and bore her to death, she finally gets drunk and booty texts him.
...after 3 glasses of merlot...on a whim I texted Josh, "Is it bad that I want to drunk text you right now?"Who the hell reiterates in a drunken "come over and hook up with me" text that they'll keep things PG-13, and this is a selling point? I'd be like, "yeah, no thanks, son...I'm going to call up my NC-17 rated booty call. I can touch my own fucking tits. You can either bring your dick or nothing at all." I mean, I'm sure that Josh is trying to get laid, so he has to promise he'll back off at second base in order to persuade her to make things "O-tastic" (lamest descriptive term ever, and how is PG-13 "O-tastic", unless Leo's the luckiest bitch in the world and can achieve climax during tedious foreplay), which I'm guessing means Josh did a little light fingerbanging. Unfortunately, this dumb slag learned the hard way why she should have saved herself a whole lot of time and trouble by giving old Joshie a test drive at their first meeting, because a couple of posts later, she's singing a different tune:
I shut my phone and the minutes rolled by. Crrraaaap! Bad bad bad bad BAD idea! He had probably read it and decided he would never call me again. But then, sure enough: "Haha! I see dinner with the parents is going well."
We exchanged a few more texts which pretty openly and honestly debated the idea of him coming over. Being the gentleman that Josh is, he reiterated that it was a short walk, up to me, and he would keep things PG-13. At that point, I was pretty much set on having him come over.
In the half an hour before Josh would come over to my place, I madly raced around my apartment, lighting candles, making the bed, and picking up dirty towels off the floor. It must have distracted me from how nervous I was, because when I had a moment to breathe before the buzzer rang, I noticed that my heart was racing...and not just from cleaning so quickly. But, when Josh appeared at my door, gave me a huge smile, cupped my face in his hands and slowly kissed me, I melted....
In the interest of reserving some aspect of privacy, I won't go into the details of the evening. Overall, though, it was a fun time. Nothing too serious.
But I will just say that...it was O-tastic!
So I know I said things with Josh the other night were O-tastic. Which is true. Except for that we didn’t have sex. So, when we finally “did the grown-up,” recently well…things were less than stellar (and actually, there were two attempts in there because we had two dates in the past week). I’m not sure I understand why. I mean, everything up until the sex was fine, but when we finally got to it…Let’s just say that if there are any crickets in New York City, I could hear them chirping.I love how in the course of this "sex" blog, the only sex that ever seems to happen was this fabled New Year's one night stand and the post-"O-tastic" letdown that was Josh, yet Leo is a fucking tough critic. I'm sure the sex DID suck, since Leo strikes me as not only an inexperienced former Smith ex-LUG (lesbian until graduation), but as one of those quiet types in the sack. I don't care if a partner isn't as noisy as myself (that's a tough act to follow...it's been done, but rarely), but there's nothing worse than banging someone who just lays there and acts like they may as well be getting their shoes shined. Not to mention that I'm sure she's the type who turns off all the lights and is generally too insecure about her body to do anything but rut uninspiredly from a static and supine position. Zzzzzzzzzz.
I have to say, it’s kind of a bummer. Even though I wanted to keep things casual with him, I came to see that he had a lot of potential. He was a gentleman and a half, he was smart, funny, and I was attracted to him.
Of course, I’ve been thinking about this non-stop since I’ve last seen him, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. So it’s not like I’m just writing him off. I even poked around in our sex articles and found “When Everything’s Great but the Sex," but the fact that I didn’t even want to picture myself acting out the article’s suggestions was a fair clue that things with Josh just weren’t meant to be.
Now just how to let him down lightly? Seeing as “you’re bad in bed” and “you’re too old for me” are both offensive excuses. There’s the good old “this just isn’t working for me”, but I do kind of feel like I owe Josh some respect. I casually asked Christie today for some advice and she wasn’t much help, as she jokingly suggested, “You could sleep with him again and say the wrong name in bed. That would get rid of him. Maybe say it before you guys actually get too far into things, just so you don’t have to do it with him again.” (She was totally kidding, by the way).
I am so bad at confrontation (ummm…remember a little New Year’s post when I couldn’t just politely ask my one night stand to leave but instead had to lie to his face to get him to out of my house?), so this is starting to make me nervous. I know deep down, though, that I should learn from this experience, end the relationship (or flirtation, or whatever it was!) the right way.
Except that Christie’s suggestion is starting to look more and more appealing….
And how fucking pathetic do you have to be to spend all your time concocting elaborate schemes to let Josh down easy? First off, Josh is ten years her senior, so I'm sure he can mentally wrap his mind around that he won't be growing old watching his beloved Leo's upper arms get progressively fatter and more wobbly. Somehow I think Josh, an apparently smart, funny, financially independent single man in New York City, will manage to go on with his life sans Leo's immature, acne-spotted ass. As Josh is an adult who has probably been rejected by hotter chicks than Leo, if she really wanted to do the next kiss on Josh's list a favor, she'd tell him that he needs to bone up on his bedroom skills. I mean, giving some constructive advice that will help Josh in the long run is certainly more respectful than pulling some shady sexual trickery to make a guy dump you because you're too much of a pussy to just sever ties yourself. As is, she'll probably just get vacillate endlessly about what to do, then just never call him back. Then she'll treat the internets to a series of interminable blog entries whining about her feelings concerning the fact that she never gets any ass and doesn't have a boyfriend. Loser.
As always, Smith College proves that its reputation as a depository for sexually frustrated, annoying, pudgy girls will persist indefinitely. I may as well resign myself to accepting the fact that I should just skate over that aspect of my education. "I went to grad school at Columbia"--a statement which in my mind conjures images of pain, suffering, and torture on par with something produced by Hieronymous Bosch--sounds downright sexy compared to "I went to Smith," which conjures images of small tits and large guts nagging me for something. No thanks.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, fat fucks, JerseyGirl, retard rage, sex, Sex and the City, sluts, you're ugly
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Political Cynicism
Yesterday during Razzy's eloquent "douchebagging" of Chris Mathews she mentioned that she thinks Brack Obama's tongue would be better used for fellatio then spewing forth campaign promises that he would inevitably not be able to keep. Political cynicism is nothing new to Americans. Name the last President not caught in a major boldface lie or scandal. Bush-Iraq, Clinton- Lewinsky, Bush Sr. - "no new taxes", Reagan- Iran-Contra, ok Carter. Carter (and for that matter, Gerald Ford) were both guys without major scandals or lies. However, both were completely ineffective presidents. Saddled with a weak economy and the blowback of decades of United States involvement in Iran, Carter was crushed by a number of bad decisions. He was not a liar, but he was a weak president. Ford is still the only completely unelected president in U.S. history. He was never even the vice-president on the ballot. He was appointed vice-president by Nixon after Spiro Agnew was forced to resign amid a number of scandals. Ford then ascended to the Presidency after Nixon resigned amid Watergate. Ford had a largely unspectacular presidency that lasted under 3 years. Nixon had Watergate, Johnson and Kennedy had Vietnam and the Cubans. I could go on.
The point is that in this election there are two people that have different ideological viewpoints but represent the cynicism that so many Americans associate with politics. Both McCain and Clinton are basically saying, "I know things are bad, I know Washington is sleazy, but I can make it work...for you." While I tend to agree ideologically with Clinton more then McCain, this is not very inspiring. This is what Obama is combatting. He is basically saying that he can change the way the game is played. This is unquestionably an extremely lofty goal. But it is not impossible. He is not the first person to inspire a movement and sometimes these movements produce results. Martin Luther King Jr. is the first to come to mind in recent American history. If you believe at all in the law of averages this nation is due for a transcendent figure. FDR, MLK, Teddy Roosevelt, and Abraham Lincoln all produced bold changes that shaped the history of the country. So if people look beyond the history that has happened before their eyes they may find some legitimate reasons to believe in Obama. Politics are not the only arena where people succeed when they are supposed to fail. Someone cured polio, someone invented airplanes, someone hit 61 home runs without steroids, and someone will at some point bring forth some real visceral change to our political system...will it be Obama, and will people give him the chance?
Labels: Benzo, for serious people, John McCain, politics
Oh, yeah, one other thing...
Happy 16th birthday, LL Cool Jew!!!! Now you're old enough to drive!
This picture is a couple years old (taken when she was like 13), but I've always liked it. LL Cool Jew looks like she's up to something. She's probably plotting something as nefarious as what she's going to make for dinner, or whether she can persuade someone to go get her a can of Miller Lite from the fridge, or whether she can talk me into watching "Hardball" or some cable news trash with her. Or maybe she's plotting all the awesome things she's going to do once she's finally old enough to get her driver's license. Yeah, even though she's all growed up and married now, I'm not going to stop making cracks about her young age ever. We'll be eighty and playing shuffleboard at the retirement home and I'll still be like, "You need to borrow my ID to go buy beer, LL?"
Anyway, happy birthday! LOVE YOU!!!!!
Anyway, happy birthday! LOVE YOU!!!!!
Labels: aging, LL Cool Jew
Like Tupac said...
...you need a Pug in your life. Okay, maybe Tupac actually said "thug" instead of "Pug," but since Chingy! crawled up next to me and started snoring louder than the unmuffled Husqvarna chainsaw that spent several years during my childhood as my father's favorite power tool, I figured that he was being his usual attention-whore self and wanted me to take his picture with my MacBook webcam.
Apparently some people think this disgusting creature is cute. Okay, just MAYBE I think Chingy! is okay sometimes, and just maybe every once in a while he does something touching that makes me pet him and croon sweet CHONGAY CHONGs into his rank, tarry little ears, and just maybe I'd be devastated if anything ever happened to him, so I guess I can humor his request to show off his ugly mug here on this blog for the amusement of all you Chingy!philes out there.
Besides, Chingy! is in a posing mood, and it's probably because a new cycle of "America's Next Top Model" premieres tonight. I think ANTM exhausted its supply of potential top models long ago, because Chingy! is frankly better looking than 90% of the girls they've casted on the last few cycles. Now that I think of it, it would be awesome if Chingy! wound up on ANTM. I'd love to watch him leave anus prints all over the judging runway and sneeze contemptuously at Tyra while she instructs him on the finer points of "smiling with his eyes" and being "so wrong he's right." Besides, they always need a plus-sized model on there to prompt a few discussions with Tyra about maintaining a healthy body image, and I have no doubt that Chingy! is sufficiently portly to fall squarely in the Lane Bryant category. In fact, they could even replace Tyra's annoying ass with Chingy! The show would probably score record ratings, and if anyone knows how to displace sentiments of disgust and revulsion with a disarmingly photogenic ability to work the camera, it's Chingy!.
CHONGAY CHONG, Top Model!
Besides, Chingy! is in a posing mood, and it's probably because a new cycle of "America's Next Top Model" premieres tonight. I think ANTM exhausted its supply of potential top models long ago, because Chingy! is frankly better looking than 90% of the girls they've casted on the last few cycles. Now that I think of it, it would be awesome if Chingy! wound up on ANTM. I'd love to watch him leave anus prints all over the judging runway and sneeze contemptuously at Tyra while she instructs him on the finer points of "smiling with his eyes" and being "so wrong he's right." Besides, they always need a plus-sized model on there to prompt a few discussions with Tyra about maintaining a healthy body image, and I have no doubt that Chingy! is sufficiently portly to fall squarely in the Lane Bryant category. In fact, they could even replace Tyra's annoying ass with Chingy! The show would probably score record ratings, and if anyone knows how to displace sentiments of disgust and revulsion with a disarmingly photogenic ability to work the camera, it's Chingy!.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, media whores
Eat (dick) at Joe Delucci's
My favorite story from today's news comes to us from merry olde Englande, where some uptight slags decided to go have a nice dinner at Joe Delucci's, an Italian restaurant in Lichfield, Staffordshire.
Apparently, these ladies were unhappy with the service and complained. To make up for the poor dining experience, the staff comped them a free item on their tab. Unfortunately, this didn't go over too well, since the customers were not in the mood for a free order of "SUCK MY DICK FUCK FACE."
Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant has dreamed of doing something like this. Back when I lived in Tacoma, I worked for a couple months as a cocktail waitress at this club/restaurant called Jazzbones. My roommate Miss Corbutt worked there, and they needed someone, and I figured a little extra money couldn't hurt. Besides, they were generous with the shift drinks, so it helped me cover some of my monumentally large alcohol expenditures. I figured, I hang out in bars all the time, so working in one can't be much different...right?
WRONG! Waiting tables is one of the most exhausting, dehumanizing experiences of all time. I once had to chase down an elderly couple who walked out on their tab, then got pissed at me for making them pay for their dinners and refused to tip me. I had the feeling they pulled this scam for free dinner routinely, because they were appalled that I had actually chased them down a block away from the restaurant. No WAY was their fucking artichoke dip and New York strips coming out of my tips. I guess looking like harmless old people usually worked to give them a head start when dining and dashing, and they needed all the head start they could get since they were old and any barely ambulatory waitress could easily pursue them on foot. They were surprised they hadn't gotten away with it, but not so surprised as to make it seem like I was really putting them out and thus not deserving of a gratuity.
Another time, this table of really, really, REALLY drunk, greasy guys who all looked like they were trying to simultaneously channel Tony Montana and Mohammed Atta spent the entire night sexually harassing me to a point where I was ready to smash each one in the head with the Coors Lights I brought them to wash down their fifty fucking tequila shots. Every time I would pass by they tried to pull me onto one of their laps and feel me up, slap me in the ass, or otherwise try to lecherously manhandle me. Finally, I cut them off, at which point they called me a "fucking cunt" and the bouncer a "fat fag" (clever), and then they walked out on their tab. The bartender had their credit card information, however, and not only did he charge their drinks to them, he told me to go ahead and give myself a 25% tip.
Still another time, this girl who went to my high school came in with her parents. This girl was a dumb, rich, spoiled snowboarder chick and we weren't friends, but were on friendly terms. One time I saw her at a party over Christmas when I was home my freshman year of college and she asked me how school was and where I was going. I told her, and she replied in the quintessential stoner drawl, "Smith?! That's who sponsors me, dude!", pointing to her Smith brand boarding goggles which she was inexplicably wearing at a nighttime keg party in Nick Falsetta's parents' garage. Anyway, that night at Jazzbones, her father took me aside and said that if I took care of them, he would take really good care of me. I obliged, and brought them over $100 worth of lemon drops and Woodford's on the rocks. When they left, the asshole tipped me FIFTY FUCKING CENTS. I'd honestly rather get no tip at all, because fifty cents is just insulting. Even worse, he handed me the tab book with its measly two quarters tucked inside with a patronizing, "That's for you, sweetheart." His daughter then said she had a great time, couldn't wait to come back, and we should, like, totally hang out or something. I resolved that if they ever came in again, I'd "trip" and dump a full tray of lemon drops all over them. Lucky for them, they never did, or at least not during my short tenure there.
There were numerous other similar incidents with bad customers that guaranteed my stint as a waitress would be short. I had another, normal job with business cards and a phone extension and a cubicle and a 401(k) and the works, so it's not like I needed Jazzbones to subsist. I just could not spend my weekend nights hauling ass for people that were determined to be unhappy or complain because they were fucking cheap and didn't want to pay for their meals or tip me. I had no interest in working myself to the bone just to be insulted or harassed. Most of the time, when people complained, it was about the food (which sucked), the service (either me, the bartender, or the kitchen, all of whom were perpetually slammed because the management didn't adequately staff the place), or the live music, and I would do whatever I could to placate them. I comped fucked-up orders and was always friendly and smiling (believe it or not, I actually have great customer service skills). Often, people who complained really did have a legitimate complaint, and I would just try to make it right. However, there were always those customers that complained for the sake of complaining, or tried to sneak out of paying their tab, or refused to tip for some bullshit reason (they didn't like me, they didn't like the food, or they didn't like having to pay a cover charge for whatever shiteous blues band was playing). Those are the people that I always fantasized about screaming something along the lines of "SUCK MY DICK, FUCK FACE!" to.
Therefore, props to the staff at Joe Delucci's for living out every restaurant workers' dream. I can only imagine that this table of bitches who received this profane bill completely deserved it. They probably came in and complained that it took too long to seat their ten-top, then probably changed their orders a zillion times, then probably bitched and moaned about everything from their service to the food, and then probably demanded a free meal. If the group's spokeswhore, Clare Watkins, is any indication, these hookers were a detestable bunch of perpetually unsatisfied shrews:
Apparently, these ladies were unhappy with the service and complained. To make up for the poor dining experience, the staff comped them a free item on their tab. Unfortunately, this didn't go over too well, since the customers were not in the mood for a free order of "SUCK MY DICK FUCK FACE."
WRONG! Waiting tables is one of the most exhausting, dehumanizing experiences of all time. I once had to chase down an elderly couple who walked out on their tab, then got pissed at me for making them pay for their dinners and refused to tip me. I had the feeling they pulled this scam for free dinner routinely, because they were appalled that I had actually chased them down a block away from the restaurant. No WAY was their fucking artichoke dip and New York strips coming out of my tips. I guess looking like harmless old people usually worked to give them a head start when dining and dashing, and they needed all the head start they could get since they were old and any barely ambulatory waitress could easily pursue them on foot. They were surprised they hadn't gotten away with it, but not so surprised as to make it seem like I was really putting them out and thus not deserving of a gratuity.
Another time, this table of really, really, REALLY drunk, greasy guys who all looked like they were trying to simultaneously channel Tony Montana and Mohammed Atta spent the entire night sexually harassing me to a point where I was ready to smash each one in the head with the Coors Lights I brought them to wash down their fifty fucking tequila shots. Every time I would pass by they tried to pull me onto one of their laps and feel me up, slap me in the ass, or otherwise try to lecherously manhandle me. Finally, I cut them off, at which point they called me a "fucking cunt" and the bouncer a "fat fag" (clever), and then they walked out on their tab. The bartender had their credit card information, however, and not only did he charge their drinks to them, he told me to go ahead and give myself a 25% tip.
Still another time, this girl who went to my high school came in with her parents. This girl was a dumb, rich, spoiled snowboarder chick and we weren't friends, but were on friendly terms. One time I saw her at a party over Christmas when I was home my freshman year of college and she asked me how school was and where I was going. I told her, and she replied in the quintessential stoner drawl, "Smith?! That's who sponsors me, dude!", pointing to her Smith brand boarding goggles which she was inexplicably wearing at a nighttime keg party in Nick Falsetta's parents' garage. Anyway, that night at Jazzbones, her father took me aside and said that if I took care of them, he would take really good care of me. I obliged, and brought them over $100 worth of lemon drops and Woodford's on the rocks. When they left, the asshole tipped me FIFTY FUCKING CENTS. I'd honestly rather get no tip at all, because fifty cents is just insulting. Even worse, he handed me the tab book with its measly two quarters tucked inside with a patronizing, "That's for you, sweetheart." His daughter then said she had a great time, couldn't wait to come back, and we should, like, totally hang out or something. I resolved that if they ever came in again, I'd "trip" and dump a full tray of lemon drops all over them. Lucky for them, they never did, or at least not during my short tenure there.
There were numerous other similar incidents with bad customers that guaranteed my stint as a waitress would be short. I had another, normal job with business cards and a phone extension and a cubicle and a 401(k) and the works, so it's not like I needed Jazzbones to subsist. I just could not spend my weekend nights hauling ass for people that were determined to be unhappy or complain because they were fucking cheap and didn't want to pay for their meals or tip me. I had no interest in working myself to the bone just to be insulted or harassed. Most of the time, when people complained, it was about the food (which sucked), the service (either me, the bartender, or the kitchen, all of whom were perpetually slammed because the management didn't adequately staff the place), or the live music, and I would do whatever I could to placate them. I comped fucked-up orders and was always friendly and smiling (believe it or not, I actually have great customer service skills). Often, people who complained really did have a legitimate complaint, and I would just try to make it right. However, there were always those customers that complained for the sake of complaining, or tried to sneak out of paying their tab, or refused to tip for some bullshit reason (they didn't like me, they didn't like the food, or they didn't like having to pay a cover charge for whatever shiteous blues band was playing). Those are the people that I always fantasized about screaming something along the lines of "SUCK MY DICK, FUCK FACE!" to.
Therefore, props to the staff at Joe Delucci's for living out every restaurant workers' dream. I can only imagine that this table of bitches who received this profane bill completely deserved it. They probably came in and complained that it took too long to seat their ten-top, then probably changed their orders a zillion times, then probably bitched and moaned about everything from their service to the food, and then probably demanded a free meal. If the group's spokeswhore, Clare Watkins, is any indication, these hookers were a detestable bunch of perpetually unsatisfied shrews:
"Ms Watkin said: "I couldn't believe it. The bill read 'fish cakes', which one of us had for a starter, and it was written right above it - absolutely disgusting language."She'd also like some compensation, huh? For what...pain and suffering? So maybe the service wasn't fabulous. It's not like these bitches actually starved waiting for their damn fish cakes. An order of "suck my dick, fuck face" would probably do these tramps some good. Good show, Joe Delucci's staff. Next time I make it across the pond, I'll be sure to make a detour through Staffordshire just to ensure that I commend them on a job well done. Maybe if any of them are cute I'll even suck their dicks like the fuck face I am! It would be the least I could do to show my appreciation.
"We actually booked the table for 8 o' clock in the evening, by the time they had taken our order it was quarter to nine and we didn't actually receive our food until quarter past 10."
She added: "I'd like a written apology from the restaurant and I'd also like some compensation.
"I think that the way that we've been spoken to is absolutely outrageous."
Labels: assholes, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, international intrigue
Daily Douchebag: dudes who don't know the difference between "Obama" and "Osama"
DOB: various
Occupation: stupidity
Hometown: various
Current residence: various
Douchebaggery: Last night on "Hardball," Chris Matthews was blabbering about Barack Obama when some production guy behind the scenes decided to have some fun and put up a picture of Osama Bin Laden. This reminded everyone of the time last year when Wolf Blitzer's production guys put up a picture of Al Qaeda's heavyweights with the caption "Where's Obama?" It reminded me of how truly, monumentally stupid many people actually are.
As I discussed yesterday, I think Barack Obama's silver tongue would be put to better use licking my twat than rhapsodizing about all the campaign promises he won't be able to fulfill. However, despite my general disdain for the young senator from Illinois, I wouldn't ever confuse him with Osama Bin Laden because his last name kind of sounds the same. I mean, "Bush" sounds exactly like a slang term for vagina, but I never get my snatch confused with the president when I'm talking about one or the other. Of course MSNBC is apologizing and saying this was an accident and they don't know how it happened (just like when CNN did it last year on "The Situation Room"). I'll tell you how it happened: either someone behind the scenes at the cable news network hates Obama, or (more likely) cable news companies hire stupid people. I know the stupidity thing is true because my friend JerseyGirl is in the cable news business, and she is so much smarter than everyone else that she spends all day on Facebook because she can do in one hour what it takes most of her colleagues ALL DAY to do. JerseyGirl is clearly an exception to the rule when it comes to the quality of the average cable news producer. I know for a fact that if her superiors asked her to book Barack Obama for a show, she wouldn't start trying to get Bin Laden's cave in Tora Bora on the horn.
Periodically, I get e-mails from that knuckle-dragging racist ex-con white supremacist fake doctor James McBride where--in between what he thinks are scathing barbs about how I fuck black dudes and thus can consider myself off the guest list for any Aryan brotherhood prison reunion parties he might throw--he rants and raves histrionically about how Obama took the shahaddah when he lived in Indonesia as a child. Therefore, Obama is really a secret Muslim, so he must be a terrorist. The only information I found to substantiate this claim was from similarly delusional racist morons with websites or forums, many of which use this "Obama sounds like Osama" argument to bolster their claims. Let me get this straight: Obama lived in a predominantly Muslim country for a few years during his childhood, he's black, his last name is one letter away from the first name of the world's most infamous freedom-hating evildoer, and his middle name (Hussein) is the same as the last name of the now-deposed and hung-for-war-crimes leader of Iraq, so Obama might as well just admit right now that he's a member of Al Qaeda. Yeah, that's logical. I should count my blessings that James and his fellow Aryan brethren went to prison on felony assault charges instead of an Ivy League grad school, because if they were around campus, they'd constantly expose me for the intellectual lightweight that I am with their incisive reasoning skills.
I truly don't understand how this "Obama sounds like Osama" thing is an issue at all. Far more disturbing to me than any homophonic terror-related connotations "Obama" might arouse is the overwhelming evidence of the staggering stupidity of my fellow Americans. The same rationale that leads to people making this comparison might well be used to compare Hillary Clinton to colorfully dreadlocked funk singers because they actually have the SAME surname.
Calling Obama "Osama" reminds me of when I was in the fourth grade and some of the boys in my class called me "Angie Harassmussen" because I was a mouthy, argumentative pain in the ass. Frankly, "Harassmussen" was more fitting for me than "Osama" is for Barack Obama, but either one is about as mature as anything you might expect a ten-year-old to concoct. I strongly advise people who make this "Obama sounds like Osama" argument/mistake to watch some fucking "Sesame Street" and brush up on the difference between the letters B and S.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, grammar gestapo, politics, retard rage, scathing indictments, terror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Lil' Joe Shepard
*RAZZY Note: Man, it was hard finding pictures of Lil' Joe on the internets since he took down his MySpace. So I had to go with this promo picture from his band, Heloise and the Savoir Faire. Joe is the turkey.
Name: Joe Shepard
DOB: ???--1978?
Occupation: award-winning non-sexual porn star, dancer for Heloise and the Savoir Faire, hot piece
Hometown: somewhere in Assachusetts, I think
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: My pals KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser, AKA world-famous (or will be soon) photographers Kate and Camilla, have been friends with this guy Lil' Joe since we were all in college. Lil' Joe is a trained dancer and all-around talented, hilarious artfag. When he lived in Northampton during my college days, he was responsible for me seeing my first gay porn, the seminal El Paso Wrecking Crew. Little did I know that his fondness for gay porn would lead to his starring in one, and then winning a GAYVN Award!
The GAYVN Awards are the gay porn version of the AVN Awards, which are the Oscars of Porn. This year's AVN Awards made headlines when Jenna Jameson announced--to the masturbating public's overall relief--that she "will never spread (her) legs in this industry again." Nothing like that happened at this year's GAYVN Awards, so I didn't see what went on there. However, last night when I was having dinner with KatieScarlett and her girlfriend, she asked if I wanted to pose for this "porn site" she was doing some freelance shoots for.
"I don't have to have sex with anyone, do I?" I wanted to know. I may be a depraved slut not above sleeping with people whose names I barely know, but even the dirtiest skanks have a limit, and mine is fucking on camera. Well, fucking on camera for public consumption anyway.
"No! It's just nudes. You'll get a couple hundred dollars."
I considered this since I'm naked on the internets all the time and I'm broke, but eventually gave up the idea when I found out it would mean schlepping to Queens for an interview. I'm lazy.
"I guess this 'porn' website isn't my calling," I told KatieScarlett.
"Too bad," she said. "Lil' Joe got into it, and he won an award!"
I practically spit my Tsingtao all over our dumplings.
"What?! Lil' Joe made a porn? When?!"
"Last summer! Remember, I asked you if you wanted to come hang out on the set as an extra?"
I did vaguely remember KatieScarlett asking me if I wanted to go watch a gay porn being filmed, but I had no idea that Lil' Joe was going to be in it. I remember being disappointed that I had something else going on that day, and thus had to miss what would have been an undoubtedly fascinating cultural experience.
"Yeah, I remember, but you never told me that Lil' Joe was IN IT! Was he a top or a bottom?"
Lil' Joe is small, but I can totally see him as a top. He's the man. I remember one time KatieScarlett told me he went to this hick wedding in Vermont and spent the whole weekend covertly fucking this hot, "straight" farm boy in some dilapidated shack in the woods.
"Neither, dude! He was just an actor!"
"An actor? Like he didn't have sex...he was actually just acting? No cocksucking or anything?"
"No, dude! He won the award for 'Best Non-Sexual Performance'! They flew him to the awards show and everything so he could accept in person!"
Amazing. Only Lil' Joe would manage to steal the show in a gay porn without so much as taking his pants off. A brief search of the internets confirmed that the gay porn community indeed gave him rave reviews for his performance as an "over-the-top" receptionist at a gay porn studio in The Intern. I also realized that his show-stealing was extremely impressive considering the talent starring alongside him. The title character is played by some guy named Ben Andrews, and one glance at his penis makes my ass hurt just thinking about it. Uff da.
Anyway, I wanted to offer my most sincere and admiring congratulations to Lil' Joe on another illustrious achievement in what is proving to be an unusual and successful career. He's hilarious and insanely talented, and I can now brag that I know a non-sexual porn star! Hats off and dicks up to Lil' Joe!
Labels: artfaggotry, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, KatieScarlett, porn, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Wow!
Any of the regular Razzy readers out there know that she is an exceptionally bright woman. One of the smartest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. So this post might not go over so well....Still reading about why Razzy is a Republican has to be one of the most laughable pieces of writing ever posted on this blog. Now I won't waste time and bore everyone about how just about every CATO Institute, Rand Institute, libertarian economic theory has proven to be completely self-indulgent, intellectual nonsense over the years. There are so many other fish to fry if you will.
There was a point in your post where you complained about Obama being "over-regulating." Yes and look at what the lack of regulations has brought forth to business and the nation over that past eight years. Enron, Worldcom, lots of food recalls, lots of toy recalls, even pet-food recalls! Did I forget mine-collapses, bridge collapses, and the entire home loan industry gagging on its' own greed and causing a massive credit crisis that we have not even begun to dig out of. Is this the kind of regulation you fear? Bush enacted libertarian hands-off economic policies and business responded by screwing the people of this country in the ass. Business stripped employees of jobs, outsoursed them and consolidated small business turning much of the country into one big mall. They could use a little regualtion...don't worry I'm sure no one on the board of Exxon will go hungry.
" The government should maintain basic infrastructure and the military"
Wow! McCain and the Republicans have done such an amazing job at that. Forget that Obama's economic plan is centered on infrastructure rebuilding. The military has never been weaker. It is underfunded, lacks armor, fatigued, stretched thin, and we have tons of mentally and physically disabled vets that have piss-poor health care coming back from Iraq. McCain of course thinks we can enforce democracy in Iraq with the barrel of a gun so that problem won't be solved......ever. Maybe Razzy is talking about maintaining strong military contractors. That has been a consistent strength of McCain and his Republican buddies. Haliburton, Boeing, McDonnell-Douglas, and Blackwater all have had some pretty profitable years. Also by the way. The neo-cons like McCain a lot. He is one of them. His entire foreign policy is based on neo-conservative theory. Just like his buddies Guiliani and Lieberman.
McCain has gotten a nice rep as "good guy". The McCain-Feingold legislation he drafted that spearheaded campaign finance reform was a great bill. However when it came time to start an investigation into corruption in Iraq or in New Orleans he was pretty quiet. McCain talks about his disdain for Rumsfeld. But he never acted on it unless you count talking smack AFTER Rumsfeld quit. Where was McCain as Alberto Gonzales was making a mockery of the justice department? McCain was pretty quiet. If you are really concerned about corruption in Washington you might want to look at the other name on that Campaign-Finance reform bill. Russ Feingold.
Also Razzy, why not vote on social issues? McCain is certainly not Huckabee or Pat Robertson. But he voted for all of Bush's extreme right-wing judicial nominees. If Grandpa Munster actually wins this election he has stated repeatedly that he will appoint "strict conservative judges" . This does not bode well for issues like wire-tapping, gay marriage, abortion, gay adoption, stem-cell research, employee rights, union rights, free-speech. Saying I don't vote "social issues" is a total cop-out. Wether you vote them or not your vote impacts them.
I guess the guys at SCORES have not been keeping track of Mayor Mike's statements regarding the current election. There is NO CHANCE he would latch on to McCain's ticket. They disagree on everything except the war in Iraq. In fact Bloomberg and Warren Buffet, and Bill Gates have all praised Obama's economic plan. These guys don't look like socialists, but maybe McCain can have them all swiftboated during the election so they look like commies. These guys all know it is Bush's economic plan combined with a stupid and expensive war that has put this country into an economic tailspin. If you are worried about spending money we don't have you might want to remove your head from your ass and look at which administrations created the biggest deficits in US history. Reagan who McCain can't stop worshipping and his buddy George W. Bush. Since the last two major recessions have been at the tail end of eight year conservative republican presidencies isn't it time we stopped giving these guys credit for being fiscally responsible?!
There was a point in your post where you complained about Obama being "over-regulating." Yes and look at what the lack of regulations has brought forth to business and the nation over that past eight years. Enron, Worldcom, lots of food recalls, lots of toy recalls, even pet-food recalls! Did I forget mine-collapses, bridge collapses, and the entire home loan industry gagging on its' own greed and causing a massive credit crisis that we have not even begun to dig out of. Is this the kind of regulation you fear? Bush enacted libertarian hands-off economic policies and business responded by screwing the people of this country in the ass. Business stripped employees of jobs, outsoursed them and consolidated small business turning much of the country into one big mall. They could use a little regualtion...don't worry I'm sure no one on the board of Exxon will go hungry.
On to Che Guevara. I am not a big fan of Guevara and the Obama workers that chose to decorate the office like that are obvious morons. But McCain has been know to help out Blackwater, and they have surpassed Guevara's attrocities in Iraq as paid thug mercenaries. In fact now that hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqi civilians have been killed in the name of a totally useless war it seems pretty petty and ignorant of you to worry about a campaign worker in Houston who puts up a poster of Che Guevara, but then again it was on FOX.
Labels: Benzo, John McCain, politics
My name is Razzy, and I am a Republican
A lot of my friends have been wondering why I'm so pro-McCain. Because I'm socially very liberal in my beliefs, they just can't fathom why I would vote for a conservative Republican. Some people have chalked this up to my desire to be a contrarian asshole, and I'd be lying if I didn't say this was partly true. Philosophically, I'm a moderate libertarian. I believe that the government should be very small, taxes should be extremely low, and the only thing that our elected officials should be worried about are maintaining basic infrastructure and the military. I don't think the government has any business legislating morality or making exceptions to the civil liberties guaranteed in our Constitution. I also think that the economy should be as free-market as it can get. Therefore, I don't vote based on social issues. I vote for people who have a conservative, pro-business voting record and who make an effort to eliminate corruption and graft from Washington. Thus...John McCain.
There are a lot of things I'm not crazy about with regard to Senator McCain. I'm certainly not wild about his affiliating himself with Bush for political reasons, but I take comfort in knowing that the Jesus freak neo-cons in the Republican party hate his hot liver-spotty ass. I'd certainly rather support a more fiscally conservative war hero than a spend-happy socialist like Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. I think the poster that Scores hung up in honor of Presidents' Day says it all (and note...Scores, a world-famous strip club, isn't discriminating against Hillary for her female gender):
I don't really know how Bloomberg got in there since he's not even technically running (yet) other than via wishful thinking by New Yorkers, but I have to say that a McCain-Bloomberg ticket is way more appealing to me than a Clinton-Obama (or vice-versa) ticket. Business would boom (thus creating jobs and helping our flagging economy) and America wouldn't be spending $500-800 billion we don't have on unproven social programs and tax cuts which may not even be implementable. In fact, this past Sunday morning I realized that I truly am a fiscal Republican when I was having sex to "The Cost of Freedom" business block on Fox News and I actually got turned on listening to Neil Cavuto and friends slam Obama for his demonization of corporate interests and recommending that you pad your kids' college funds with tobacco company stocks. I plan to buy my NFL team based on the record profits of the biotech empire I'm going to found, and I can't do that without the Bush tax cuts in place. So fuck off, Obama, you price-controlling, NAFTA-hating, over-regulating, anti-capitalist pinko!
Furthering my disdain for Barack Obama was a shot that I saw from the Houston Fox affiliate of a local Obama campaign office. I was appalled:
Yes, that's right...Obama's people hung up a Cuban flag emblazoned with the iconic portrait of Che Guevara so favored by pseudo-intellectual hipsters buying faux vintage shirts at Urban Outfitters. Good thinking, Obama staffers. At least now I'm clear on what's underlying Obama's fluent and insubstantial rhetoric: a desire to emulate a communist revolutionary who facilitated Castro's rise to power by executing hundreds of political dissidents without a trial. I was confused about what kind of "change" Obama was advocating, but now I know that in addition to promising a whole lot of vaguely elucidated reforms our country can't afford, he encourages people to find hope and inspiration in a socialist who spent the majority of his life fomenting bloody guerrilla wars. I especially like the peace sign flag that Obama's people have hung alongside the Che flag. Nothing says "peace" like a guy who was basically a mercenary specializing in violent political upheaval inclined to kill those speaking out against the policies he advocated. Either Obama's campaign is woefully ignorant of history or far more insidious than I thought. Next to this, McCain looks pretty damn solid.
I am tired of people being shocked that I am a Republican, at least in this election. I don't like hypocrites, and I don't like idiots, and McCain is less of both. So that's why I'm voting for John McCain this November (assuming he gets the nomination, which he will). I genuinely believe that he would be better for America than anyone the Democrats can offer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go listen to some Toby Keith and eat some freedom fries. John! Mc! Cain! U! S! A!
There are a lot of things I'm not crazy about with regard to Senator McCain. I'm certainly not wild about his affiliating himself with Bush for political reasons, but I take comfort in knowing that the Jesus freak neo-cons in the Republican party hate his hot liver-spotty ass. I'd certainly rather support a more fiscally conservative war hero than a spend-happy socialist like Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. I think the poster that Scores hung up in honor of Presidents' Day says it all (and note...Scores, a world-famous strip club, isn't discriminating against Hillary for her female gender):
I don't really know how Bloomberg got in there since he's not even technically running (yet) other than via wishful thinking by New Yorkers, but I have to say that a McCain-Bloomberg ticket is way more appealing to me than a Clinton-Obama (or vice-versa) ticket. Business would boom (thus creating jobs and helping our flagging economy) and America wouldn't be spending $500-800 billion we don't have on unproven social programs and tax cuts which may not even be implementable. In fact, this past Sunday morning I realized that I truly am a fiscal Republican when I was having sex to "The Cost of Freedom" business block on Fox News and I actually got turned on listening to Neil Cavuto and friends slam Obama for his demonization of corporate interests and recommending that you pad your kids' college funds with tobacco company stocks. I plan to buy my NFL team based on the record profits of the biotech empire I'm going to found, and I can't do that without the Bush tax cuts in place. So fuck off, Obama, you price-controlling, NAFTA-hating, over-regulating, anti-capitalist pinko!
Furthering my disdain for Barack Obama was a shot that I saw from the Houston Fox affiliate of a local Obama campaign office. I was appalled:
I am tired of people being shocked that I am a Republican, at least in this election. I don't like hypocrites, and I don't like idiots, and McCain is less of both. So that's why I'm voting for John McCain this November (assuming he gets the nomination, which he will). I genuinely believe that he would be better for America than anyone the Democrats can offer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go listen to some Toby Keith and eat some freedom fries. John! Mc! Cain! U! S! A!
Labels: assholes, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John McCain, libertarians rule, politics, tyrannical rulers, United States of Asskickery
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: D'Brickashaw Ferguson
DOB: December 10, 1983
Occupation: left tackle for the New York Jets
Hometown: Freeport, New York
Current residence: somewhere in New Jersey?
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Many of you are probably scratching your heads and saying, "But Razzy, isn't football season over? Why are you still talking about football players?" If you're J-Sexy, you're probably adding, "Football is ridicolos and stupid." The truth is that I'm miserable about football season being over, and I couldn't really think of anyone in particular today that I was very excited about. So...today seems like as good a time as any to discuss my fondness for D'Brickashaw Ferguson.
Obviously, the primary reason I like D'Brick is his undeniably awesome name. According to Wikipedia, he was named after Richard Chamberlain's character in The Thorn Birds, Father Ralph de Bricassart. My grandma was totally into that Thorn Birds miniseries when I was a kid, and all I remember about it was that Father Ralph boned some chick in the Australian outback and knocked her up, but still managed to get promoted to Cardinal. I suppose Father Ralph could have gotten into WAY more embarrassing mischief than impregnating a grown, consenting woman while he was busy ministering to a bunch of rural sheep farmers. No wonder his character was such a great inspiration for the most impressive first name in all of the National Football League. If I were the child-bearing type, I would most likely also turn to horny fictional priests as a source for the awesomely misspelled name of my firstborn.
And now that I think of it, that's really the only reason I like D'Brickashaw Ferguson. I mean, he's otherwise admirable. He's speedy and athletic, he has a black belt in tae kwon do, and he managed to complete his college degree in less than four years, so props to him. He's also a youth minister and seems kind of religious, so I imagine that he won't be pulling a Pacman Jones and making it rain all over a bunch of strippers anytime soon (although I'm not sure that's a good thing--the whole Pacman Jones thing was extremely entertaining to me). Really, though, it's all about his name. D'Brickashaw is the hotness.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, NFL football
Daily Douchebag: feminist Hillary Clinton supporters
DOB: various
Occupation: sore losers
Hometown: various
Current residence: nationwide
Douchebaggery: I knew it was only a matter of time after Hillary started to lose before the feminists started whining about how this is another example of gender discrimination. Sure enough, an article today in the Boston Globe is getting into all the whiny bitching coming out of the nation's most prominent feminist organizations.
From Kim Gandy, president of the National Organization for women: "I do think at some level there is a Catch-22 for women. Showing your heart has never been a plus for high-achieving women."Okay, bitches, I got it. You're pissed that Barack Obama is a hell of a lot more charming than Hillary and this is unfair because she has more experience, and this is all because she's a she. I will be the first to agree that Hillary has addressed specific policies compared to Obama's seemingly endless well of vague "hope and change" rhetoric. However, I don't think this has to do with Hillary being a woman. Hillary's supposed vast experience consists of having one more term than Obama in the Senate, and being a First Lady who managed to accomplish a whole lot of nothing in terms of health care reform. Accusations that she's being punished for being "competent" rather than "jazzy" on account of her gender are bullshit, because I wouldn't say that Hillary is competent based on her track record.
From Martha Burk, chairwoman of the National Council for Women's Organizations: "She characterizes herself as being a workhorse and not a show horse. She is being punished in a certain way for being competent and not jazzy. If he (Obama) were female, with his credentials, age, and track record, I don't think he'd be anywhere near the presidency of the United States."
From Ramona Oliver, communications director of EMILY's List: "All of the substance, all of the work, all of the policies, all of the accomplishments probably don't come off as flashy. There's inspiration, and there's effectiveness."
When I think of things Hillary Clinton has done, I think of her failing at fixing the clusterfuck that is our nation's health insurance system. I think of her voting for the Iraq War and then backpedaling on that position. I think of shady land deals in the Ozarks and even shadier goings-on in the cattle futures market. I think of cover-ups involving bankrupted savings and loans. I think of failures to report campaign contributions worth upwards of $800,000. I think of someone who claims to champion workers' rights, yet sat on the board of Wal-Mart--quite possibly the world's worst employer--for six years. I think of someone who blames criticism on conspiracies, rather than the result of her own fraudulent sketchiness. None of these things have anything to do with the fact that Senator Clinton is rocking a pair of X chromosomes. These things have everything to do with the fact that she is an unscrupulous liar, and all the specifics on her policy positions in the world can't change that.
Clinton isn't losing to Obama because of gender discrimination, and it annoys me to no end that bitches are saying this is the case. I think it's gender discrimination to suggest that the American public should overlook Hillary's "experience" at being involved in all sorts of eyebrow-raising shenanigans simply because she is a woman. Should female candidates be exempt from criticism of their records simply because they are female? I don't think so. The last time I checked, feminism was supposed to ensure that women are equal to men, not given special privileges.
I am no fan of Barack Obama because he writes a whole lot of gigantic checks that his ass won't be able to cash with every inspiring rally. However, it's hardly sexist that he has managed to outpeddle his bullshit platform to the American public compared to Hillary. Her so-called "accomplishments" are the very reason that Democrats would rather vote Obama. They don't want more of Hillary's corrupt politics-as-usual. They want someone who is going to change things, and that is what Obama is selling. Hillary isn't failing to galvanize new followers because of her gender. She is failing to rally support because she is duplicitous and sneaky, and all the boring, policy-heavy speeches in the world aren't going to make voters forget that.
I think it's a waste of time for these women's organizations to crow about how Hillary is getting shafted and if Obama were a woman, he wouldn't be anywhere near where he is because of a lack of substance. Hypothetical musing over whether Obama would succeed with a set of tits is irrelevant and pointless, and ultimately insulting to female voters who go with Obama or anyone else (like the hotness known as Senator John McCain). It suggests that chicks who don't automatically back Hillary because of her gender are either ignorant or stupid tools of the patriarchy who don't know what's best for them and are easily tricked by a flashy show rather than impressed by a candidate's record. I would argue that if Hillary is losing the support of women or any other group of voters, it's because of her record and her "substance," not in spite of it.
This also reminds me of why I never pay attention to anything preached by groups like the National Organization for Women. I don't need to hear passive-aggressive lectures about voting for a woman because I'm a woman delivered in the form of a whiny, unsupported complaint about sexism. In the immortal words of Trina, "you bitches got too much times on your hand." Grow up and accept that Hillary is going to lose to Obama because all the "substance" and "experience" she brings is tremendously unappealing to many people, not because she's yet another broad hitting a "glass ceiling" or suffering discrimination. Karma's a bitch, and so is Hillary, judging by her record.
Labels: Barack Obama, Daily Douchebag, feminazism, Hillary Clinton, politics, sluts
Monday, February 18, 2008
Fuck Wit Dre Day (and everyone's celebratin'!)
Today is President's Day, but who cares? Is anyone really reflecting on the life and achievements of Millard Fillmore, James K. Polk, or Grover Cleveland? All I know about James K. Polk is that on the rare occasion I would actually avoid crashing my wagon raft on boulders in the Columbia River and win the game Oregon Trail on my grade school's Apple IIe computers, I would get a telegram from President Polk congratulating me on successfully fording the Dalles and making it safely to the Shangri-La that is the P-N-Dub--or "Oregon Territory" as they called it back in the days of yore. Then President Polk would wish me lots of luck on the homesteading tip and send his prayers that those members of my family who hadn't already died of broken arms, fever 'n' ague, or dysentery wouldn't get massacred by a band of pissed-off Klamath braves for stealing their land. So FUCK President's Day. I still have to work (although I'm going in late because it's a holiday! Take that, grad school!).
President's Day eclipses what should be a much more important and revered holiday: today is Andre "Dr. Dre" Young's 43rd birthday! Yeaaaaahhhh...hell, yeah!
I'm sure right now he's just sittin' in his living room, calm and collected, feelin' that gotta-get-mine perspective. I'm sure that all his friends are thus going to bring him some awesome birthday presents. Sadly, I'm broke and I don't live anywhere near the father of rap, so I can't stop by with a material expression of my long-running adoration. I had that poster for The Chronic in my dorm room at Smith for three years, and it was almost as prized a possession as my deer head. I also insisted that at least once a year, we find an excuse to run a picture of Dr. Dre in the Smith newspaper just because Dr. Dre is just fucking fantastic. And I can't even tell you how many times a well-placed blasting of "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks" succeeded in pissing off the uptight feminazi types at Smith. Without him, we wouldn't have N.W.A. or any of its former members, Warren G, Snoop, Nate Dogg, Eminem (no loss there), or my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. Without him, I wouldn't be able to break out choice quotes to honeys in bars like "gap teeth in my mouth so your dick's got to fit" or choice threats to my enemies like "don't even respect yo' ass, that's why it's time for the doctor to check yo' ass." Dr. Dre has helped me immensely throughout my life with his big money, big nuts, and his big, fat chronic sack.
Anyway, if I had the means, I'd get him the best birthday present ever. Dr. Dre is a great man and deserves to be celebrated far more than any douchebags like William Henry Harrison or Jimmy Carter or Chester A. Arthur or whoever. I wish I could show him an expression of my gratitude. However, since I don't have a VCR in the back of my (nonexistent) car that I ganked from the Slauson swap meet, and I don't even have his phone number to call him up and serenade him with "Deeeeeez nuuutz," I will have to be satisfied with wishing him a happy 43rd here on the internets. Happy birthday, Dr. Drizay! Hope you're catching bitches and those bitches aren't catching feelings.
President's Day eclipses what should be a much more important and revered holiday: today is Andre "Dr. Dre" Young's 43rd birthday! Yeaaaaahhhh...hell, yeah!
Anyway, if I had the means, I'd get him the best birthday present ever. Dr. Dre is a great man and deserves to be celebrated far more than any douchebags like William Henry Harrison or Jimmy Carter or Chester A. Arthur or whoever. I wish I could show him an expression of my gratitude. However, since I don't have a VCR in the back of my (nonexistent) car that I ganked from the Slauson swap meet, and I don't even have his phone number to call him up and serenade him with "Deeeeeez nuuutz," I will have to be satisfied with wishing him a happy 43rd here on the internets. Happy birthday, Dr. Drizay! Hope you're catching bitches and those bitches aren't catching feelings.
Labels: aging, Dumb Smith bitches, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, rap, Razzification
"I Do" the Puyallup
Last night, LL Cool Jew texted me:
Needless to say, these functions are a joy to behold, and clearly I need to watch more CMT. Besides, it's putting Puyallupian culture on the map, and I'm all for that. The P-N-Dub hick is a special breed of redneck that is generally underrepresented in the media, and I applaud CMT for dishing out a hot slice of Puyallup to satiate the nation's appetite for the sexy, rain-soaked PWT so common in my hometown.
I'm already hooked on this show, and I haven't even seen it.
the episode of my redneck wedng right now s set n washington state. groom wearing seahawks ballcap n mossy oak vestWHAT? "My Redneck Wedding?" What is this show, why are there hicks on it who are probably my relatives, and why haven't I ever heard of it before? This sounds to me like a must-see! I inquired back to LL Cool Jew what channel this show was on. She replied:
cmt dude. zomg have u not gotten into my big redneck wedding hostd by tom arnold? i wd b so excitd 2 introduce you 2 it!So it turns out this show is on CMT. That would explain why I haven't seen it. While I do like the hot pieces named Toby Keith singing about trucks and freedom and Brad Paisley singing about checking ladies for ticks, I don't spend a large portion of my time masturbating to their videos like certain Taylor Swift fans I know. I certainly don't spend any of my time checking out what kind of original programming CMT is offering. However, that's about to change. Since I didn't want to wait until the next time I visit LL Cool Jew in New Orleans, I went to the internets to find out more. I found a synopsis of the episode LL Cool Jew was talking about on the "My Big Redneck Wedding" website.
In Puyallup, Wash., Tami and Brad are getting hitched the northwest redneck style, with rain, mud, guns, quads and plenty of beer guzzling fun. The only problem is, Brad's mom doesn't like it one bit. She's a wedding planner and was hoping her son would get married the old-fashion way - in a church with flowers, dresses and class. With mom changing the couple's plans and Brad procrastinating with getting the wedding site ready, this tomboy bride is getting nervous.God, I can't BELIEVE I'm not related to these people. Now that I think of it, I might have a distant cousin named Tami. They're even getting married on someone's undeveloped property in MY HOMETOWN. Indeed, there is no place more romantic than some dude's Puyallup muddin' grounds to park your trailers (which I'm sure were decorated up real faincy-like for the occasion...with paper lantern string lights from Wal-Mart and everthing), your shotgun collection, and your portable meth lab to honor such an historic occasion. What could be more romantic than a fleet of recreational vehicles, a glorious display of one's right to bear arms, gray skies, and red plastic cups overflowing with Rainier Beer, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub? I can see how Brad's wedding planner mom apparently failed to persuade the happy couple to have the wedding "in a church with flowers, dresses, and class," as nothing outromances a traditional wedding like a keg party in a muddy yard on under Puyallup's sultry overcast skies. Besides, she never had a chance. This couple knows what they want when it comes to making major relationship moves. They waited all of three days after they met (at a bar in Auburn, which probably translates to "over a video poker machine at the Muckleshoot Casino") before shacking up. Their passion ignited over a mutual love for four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles and Brad's interests is intense, and their dream of a special day will not be mitigated by the selfish demands made by an interfering future mother-in-law. Nobody is going to stop Brad and Tami from commemorating their blessed matrimony with a thrilling game of wedd'n day lawn bowling.
Tami and BradMy cousin got married in a very similar situation, in his front yard. Well, actually, it was my aunt and uncle's front yard, but my cousin lived there with his new bride in a trailer parked off'n the side yard. There were fewer guns (although some firearms did make an appearance), an equivalent number of four-wheelers, and more earth-moving equipment. No joke. They exchanged vows adjacent to a parked and tarp-shrouded Bobcat. At least they tried to class it up a little by wearing traditional wedding outfits, right down to the bridesmaids' dyeable Payless satin pumps. Sadly, those pumps were stained by the perpetually sodden earth pervasive in my aunt and uncle's slowly sinking yard. The reception fare consisted primarily of finger-foods found in the Costco freezer section. I probably consumed half my body weight in taquitos and meatballs reheated in a crock pot with Yoshida's sauce that day. I also recall washing it down with a few ice-cold cans of Rainier, which is far more a far more appropriate golden carbonated spirit to raise than champagne to raise in celebration of Spanaway's most recent newlyweds. Vitamin R was also useful in ameliorating my anxieties about a sinkhole forming in the yard around my aunt and uncle's woefully maintained septic tank at any time during the festivities.
Tami is from Auburn, Wash.
Brad is from Auburn, Wash., but if you ask him, he will tell you Minot, N.D.
We met thru a mutual friend at a bar in Auburn, Wash. We met on a Friday, went out again that Saturday and he moved in the next Tuesday!!! A whirlwind!!! But so totally worth it.
For fun, we like to be outdoors. Brad plays bocce (Italian lawn bowling), hunting, quads, snowmobiles ... anything outside. Tami is about quads and watching Brad do his thing ... and fishing.
We did the redneck wedding because that's Brad. It was so perfect for us to have the camo, Carhartts, quads and mud! It fits who we are, or I guess more of who Brad is!
The main feature that we wanted in our wedding was family and shotguns. Basically our whole wedding was family. Brad's uncle even got ordained so that he could marry us!!! And the shotguns were a big deal to Brad. He and his brother are very into hunting so guns are a big part of his life. He wanted to incorporate that aspect in the wedding.
For the future, we are planning to get pregnant, hopefully soon. We are getting settled into our new house, and Brad bought me a new SUV to go with our new house. He really does take good care of me and my son Logan.
Needless to say, these functions are a joy to behold, and clearly I need to watch more CMT. Besides, it's putting Puyallupian culture on the map, and I'm all for that. The P-N-Dub hick is a special breed of redneck that is generally underrepresented in the media, and I applaud CMT for dishing out a hot slice of Puyallup to satiate the nation's appetite for the sexy, rain-soaked PWT so common in my hometown.
I'm already hooked on this show, and I haven't even seen it.
Labels: Do the Puyallup, holy fucking matrimony, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, P-N-Dub, PWT, TV
VD BS is so romantic
About a year ago, one of my friends asked me, "Have you ever done BS?"
"BS? Yeah, dude, every day. It's called RAZZY.org," I responded.
"No, dude, I meant BS. You know..." She dropped her voice to a whisper, because she doesn't like using graphic sex terms (she routinely says "S'ing D" rather than "sucking dick.") "Anal."
"Ohhhhhhhh...buttsex. I see. Well, yes, of course I have!"
"So...what's it like?" she wanted to know.
"I've been saying this to guys for years, dude. Anal sex is like eclairs. It's fine every so often but don't expect it for breakfast every day." Then I got to wondering about how this got brought up. "Why? Did you have it or something?"
"NO!" she exclaimed, somewhat scandalized. Then, she remembered who she was talking to, and she wasn't going to get judged for being a perv. "Okay, well, I kind of wanted to try it."
At the time, she had recently started dating her boyfriend. I don't know whether it was his or her idea, but apparently neither of them had done this, and both were intensely curious about it.
"So, can you give me some tips?" she asked.
Being the resident slut machine of our crew, I was happy to share wisdom gained from my rather copious sexual experience. I explained that anal sex requires some preparation to be a good experience. You have to make sure you have plenty of lube on hand, don't stick it back in the front unless you've used a condom and/or taken a shower for microbiological reasons, and most important of all, you have to take a shit beforehand. There is NOTHING more embarrassing and decidedly not feminine than finishing up a hot session in the sack by scrubbing poop off your partner. I've had this happen and it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my entire life. In fact, I advised her to give herself an enema if she wanted to really be on the safe side. That's what the porn stars do, and it might be gross and embarrassing to buy at the drugstore, but it works.
"EWWWWWWW!" shrieked my friend. "Dude, are you serious?"
"Well, what do you expect? Apart from being an alternative hole where guys can stick their dicks, your ass is what you shit out of! This is a basic fact of life!"
My warnings concerning the less glamorous side of anal sex did not deter said friend's curiosity. On occasion, we'd be hanging around chillaxing and all of a sudden friend would blurt out, "Dude, the BF and I almost had BS last night but we weren't drunk enough" or "Dude, the BF and I almost had BS but then I was nervous it might hurt." I remembered having similar concerns myself in college prior to my first BS experience. In fact, my "BF" had to work on me for months to persuade me to at least give it a try.
"When you finally did it, what was it like?" asked my friend eagerly.
"Well, it didn't hurt. It was pretty fun. I mean, it was something different, and it was way sexier and more erotic than I expected. I thought it was going to be gross. But since I don't have a prostate, I had to help myself get there, if you know what I mean. Or maybe Benzo gave me a reach-around. I don't remember. All I know is that if you want to have an O, be prepared to rub it off yourself. At least that's been my experience."
After months of occasional pre-anal sex counseling sessions with me, one morning I awoke to a text from my friend saying something along the lines of "the BF and I had BS last night and it was awesome!!! :D"
I congratulated her for finally daring to go for it, and for having a positive experience. Ever since then, I've been getting regular BS updates from her, the most recent being last Friday morning, February 15th.
And those of you who agree with me should join this awesome Facebook group.
"BS? Yeah, dude, every day. It's called RAZZY.org," I responded.
"No, dude, I meant BS. You know..." She dropped her voice to a whisper, because she doesn't like using graphic sex terms (she routinely says "S'ing D" rather than "sucking dick.") "Anal."
"Ohhhhhhhh...buttsex. I see. Well, yes, of course I have!"
"So...what's it like?" she wanted to know.
"I've been saying this to guys for years, dude. Anal sex is like eclairs. It's fine every so often but don't expect it for breakfast every day." Then I got to wondering about how this got brought up. "Why? Did you have it or something?"
"NO!" she exclaimed, somewhat scandalized. Then, she remembered who she was talking to, and she wasn't going to get judged for being a perv. "Okay, well, I kind of wanted to try it."
At the time, she had recently started dating her boyfriend. I don't know whether it was his or her idea, but apparently neither of them had done this, and both were intensely curious about it.
"So, can you give me some tips?" she asked.
Being the resident slut machine of our crew, I was happy to share wisdom gained from my rather copious sexual experience. I explained that anal sex requires some preparation to be a good experience. You have to make sure you have plenty of lube on hand, don't stick it back in the front unless you've used a condom and/or taken a shower for microbiological reasons, and most important of all, you have to take a shit beforehand. There is NOTHING more embarrassing and decidedly not feminine than finishing up a hot session in the sack by scrubbing poop off your partner. I've had this happen and it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my entire life. In fact, I advised her to give herself an enema if she wanted to really be on the safe side. That's what the porn stars do, and it might be gross and embarrassing to buy at the drugstore, but it works.
"EWWWWWWW!" shrieked my friend. "Dude, are you serious?"
"Well, what do you expect? Apart from being an alternative hole where guys can stick their dicks, your ass is what you shit out of! This is a basic fact of life!"
My warnings concerning the less glamorous side of anal sex did not deter said friend's curiosity. On occasion, we'd be hanging around chillaxing and all of a sudden friend would blurt out, "Dude, the BF and I almost had BS last night but we weren't drunk enough" or "Dude, the BF and I almost had BS but then I was nervous it might hurt." I remembered having similar concerns myself in college prior to my first BS experience. In fact, my "BF" had to work on me for months to persuade me to at least give it a try.
"When you finally did it, what was it like?" asked my friend eagerly.
"Well, it didn't hurt. It was pretty fun. I mean, it was something different, and it was way sexier and more erotic than I expected. I thought it was going to be gross. But since I don't have a prostate, I had to help myself get there, if you know what I mean. Or maybe Benzo gave me a reach-around. I don't remember. All I know is that if you want to have an O, be prepared to rub it off yourself. At least that's been my experience."
After months of occasional pre-anal sex counseling sessions with me, one morning I awoke to a text from my friend saying something along the lines of "the BF and I had BS last night and it was awesome!!! :D"
I congratulated her for finally daring to go for it, and for having a positive experience. Ever since then, I've been getting regular BS updates from her, the most recent being last Friday morning, February 15th.
"Just wanted to tell u i had bs on valentines day!"Awwww. Of all the cute Valentine's stories I had to endure (friends getting engaged, friends making romantic dinners for their significant others, friends going to fancy restaurants, friends giving and receiving jewelry, etc.), hearing that Cupid trained his crosshairs directly on my friend's ass was the most touching of all. Who needs chocolates, jewelry, flowers, or any of that commercial Valentine's trash when you have good, old-fashioned, romantic anal? Nothing says "I love you" quite like a dick in the ass.
And those of you who agree with me should join this awesome Facebook group.
Labels: assholes, BS, gross, perversion, sex, sluts
Criss Angel is a terrorist
I saw a picture of supreme douchebag musician Criss Angel on the gossip internets over the weekend, and I couldn't help but want to duck and cover in case he decided to suicide bomb me. Seriously, he is slowly becoming ever bit the terrorist I always thought him to be. With that beard, he looks like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi reincarnated as a Hot Topic employee rather than a terrorist insurgent.
This reiterates what I've always suspected about Criss Angel. He is a despicable human being who is waging a war against the American way by hoodwinking people into watching his shiteous Vegas magic act. I knew there was something untoward going on with Criss Angel, and now I know what that something is. He is a freedom-hating terrorist. It explains a lot. Now, the Department of Homeland Security just needs to slap those bedazzled handcuffs on his wrists and lock his ass away at Gitmo and hopefully prevent him from pulling off a magical Houdini-esque escape before his turn in the waterboarding room.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Criss Angel, intentional buffoonery, terror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Vikki Lizzi
DOB: ???--probably the late 60s/early 70s
Occupation: enabler, drug addict, failed singer
Hometown: San Francisco, California
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Anyone who, like me, has succumbed to the trainwreck otherwise known as "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew" knows that Jeff Conaway, star of Grease, "Taxi," and a previous installment of "Celebrity Fit Club," is a fucking mess. He is severely addicted to opiate painkillers, and when he's not screaming, drooling, seizing, whimpering, or exploding with rage, he's threatening to leave rehab because of some drama with his girlfriend Vikki.
Dr. Drew has already noted that Vikki is bad news for Jeff's tenuous grasp of sobriety, because she is the world's biggest enabler. She's apparently known for slipping him drugs in rehab, and on her first visit brought Norco (Vicodin/Tylenol) into the facility. On her next visit, she pulled a Lohan and brought a squirt bottle filled with vodka, which she encouraged Jeff to drink (he did, and drama ensued). When Dr. Drew sat them both down for a counseling session, she said that the booze was part of a plot conceived by Jeff to get her to show up drunk to visit rehab, so that she could be diagnosed with alcoholism and admitted to the facility to keep him company. She complained that she didn't want to get rid of the booze around her house because she needs it for "migraines." Too bad it doesn't help with the case of the alcoholic/narcotic painkiller face bloat she's suffering something serious. Anyway, Jezebel has a clip of this bitch being a totally ridiculous piece of work from the last episode.
Anyway, in addition to Vikki's determination to thwart Jeff's recovery, she is apparently a Renaissance woman of the theater. She is an actress and singer, and per her IMDB resume, she's a master of the performing arts. She can sing "club/freestyle, hip hop, and tap" dancing, and has mastered Bronx, Cockney, British, and Texan accents. Clearly she is a star force to be reckoned with. Normally, I wouldn't like Vikki because she's scary-looking, and because I don't think that trying to facilitate one's own addiction by sabotaging one's partner's recovery is very admirable. However, that was before I saw video footage of Vikki plying her craft.
Prior to Jeff's addiction taking a turn for the worst but after his legendary appearances haranguing at Harvey the ex-Marine drill sergeant on "Celebrity Fit Club," Jeff and Vikki attended the "Fox Reality Remix Awards." I had no idea such an award show existed, but luckily for the employment prospects of host Kennedy, it apparently does to provide a forum for the reality omega-list to showcase their many talents. In Jeff and Vikki's case, this was to perform a piece entitled "Krazee". Yes, that's their spelling, not mine. They're just "krazee" enough to fuck with conventional spellings. And the performance is indeed krazee. It's like a low-rent version of something Ice-T and CoCo would put together, right down to the end where Jeff rips off Vikki's pants and shows her nana to the assembled celebreality glitterazzi:
I truly can't wait until "Celebrity Rehab 2," because you know Vikki's going to get a turn. This krazee bitch needs her own turn in the Vh1 spotlight. Good times ahead.
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, sluts, TV, Vh1
Daily Douchebag: Redtube
DOB: 2007 (?)--that's when I discovered its existence
Occupation: purveyor of free pornography
Hometown: the internets
Current residence: the internets
Douchebaggery: Normally I'm a big fan of redtube.com, which is one of my go-to clearinghouses for free online porn. On Saturday night, I went on a romantic date with this guy who took me out to dinner, then out for drinks, and then back to his crib for a nightcap/hot sex. We did actually have a nightcap before the hot sex started, and while we were sipping our drinks, somehow we wound up on his computer looking at porn. Like I said, it was very romantic. Actually, it didn't start off as watching porn so much as debating whether or not this clip of a naked chick streaking onto a soccer pitch and scoring a goal was a fake or not. Somehow, our discussion of porn tube sites revealed my extensive knowledge of them, and the conversation eventually found its way to Belladonna sticking a baseball bat up her ass. I said, "Here, let me look it up, I know it's on RedTube."
I scrolled to the top of the page to enter "Belladonna" in the search box, but couldn't find it. Shockingly, RedTube got rid of their search function! I looked all over the page, thinking I was missing something. Nope. The search box was no longer where it was supposed to be at the top of the page. Bullshit!
This really annoys me. According to the porn gossip internets, this may have something to do with porn industry big shots taking action against tube sites like RedTube for piracy. Okay, so MAYBE all the non-amateur shit on RedTube is copyrighted and posting it there is technically illegal. However, I don't see how being able to search through all the pirated content there is contributing to it. If piracy is the problem, why doesn't RedTube just remove trademarked material that gets flagged, much the way YouTube constantly takes down Tom Cruise Scientology videos? Now I just have to be content with sorting through whatever videos on RedTube have been recently uploaded, and that's no fun. What am I supposed to do on a day when I feel like seeing Jenna Haze taking it up the ass and nobody has uploaded any illegal Jenna Haze anal footage lately? Sure, I like the element of surprise, but on days when I'm in the mood for something specific, like an all-cheerleader lesbian orgy or a scene from inTERActive, I don't want to sort through 50,000 amateur scenes with titles like "Wife gives blow job" or "Handjob from German amateurs."
Furthermore, even without the search, it's still quite simple finding scenes from obviously copyrighted porn movies. For example, here's a scene of Peter North and some other guy DPing a chick, and as he's the most recognizable male name in the industry next to Ron Jeremy, Peter North isn't filming a damn second for free. Here's a pretty boring lesbian scene with Jenna Jameson (before she got ugly) with Sunrise Adams, and it was obviously shot when they were both Vivid contract stars. And here's my favorite porn chick Briana Banks demonstrating her superior acting skills with an assumed Southern accent ("it's they-ur weddin' day, silly...they're gonna be up there till the cock crow-uhs") and taking it every which way by a pool. All of these famous porn stars didn't wake up one day and decide to post amateur videos to RedTube for free. Some dude at home jerking off ripped these off the DVD (or more likely, a usenet group where these were already being illegally shared) and posted them to RedTube. In fact, half the scenes that claim to be "amateur" actually have well-known porn stars in them. Even without the search function, finding glaring examples of copyright infringement on RedTube is not hard. So bring back the search!
Labels: computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, internet domination, porn
Friday, February 15, 2008
Daily Whatever: I am so over it
There's a lot of people I want to hit and/or douchebag, but today I just cannot be bothered. I had planned to spend my Valentine's day having a drink with a friend who's birthday it was, then stop by my friend and labmate SisterChristian's soon-to-be former apartment for a moving out party. Then I was going to come home and get some work done, watch "Lost", and go to bed early. Instead of just having a "quick beer" with my birthday friend at our work local, I had a glass of scotch, a gin martini, and some kind of fruity yet potent shot that the bartender made for all his regulars. Then, instead of just "stopping by" SisterChristian's, I drank beer, stuffed my face with chicken biriyani, smoked her hookah, and found my semi-drunk ass finally getting into a cab around midnight. Once I got home, instead of working or going to bed like a good girl, I popped open another Heineken and watched some TV.
I'm not hung over, but I am exhausted. I haven't gotten much sleep all week, and today it's been especially challenging trying to haul myself out of bed. My neighbor is shouting at someone that he is a fucking asshole, my alarm is grating on my last nerve, and I am physically having trouble keeping my eyes open. I also need to do a ton of shit that should have been done yesterday, and I have to take out grad school recruits tonight and show them a good time (drink heavily). There are a lot of things I would like to say I want to hit, like Razzyphiles who link me on the F/V Northwestern's message board, or hot guys who send me sexually suggestive text messages, or bartenders who always insist of mixing a round of free shots. There are even more things I'd like to douchebag, including my neighbor, my clock radio, my looming and extremely burdensome workload, grad school (per usual), bitches who spend Valentine's Day sober and watching The Vagina Monologues, Roger Clemens, and the show "Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant." I just don't have it in me today. Sorry, dudes. I'll hit y'all with a hot blast of Razzification as soon as I wake up. In the meantime, have a great weekend.
I'm not hung over, but I am exhausted. I haven't gotten much sleep all week, and today it's been especially challenging trying to haul myself out of bed. My neighbor is shouting at someone that he is a fucking asshole, my alarm is grating on my last nerve, and I am physically having trouble keeping my eyes open. I also need to do a ton of shit that should have been done yesterday, and I have to take out grad school recruits tonight and show them a good time (drink heavily). There are a lot of things I would like to say I want to hit, like Razzyphiles who link me on the F/V Northwestern's message board, or hot guys who send me sexually suggestive text messages, or bartenders who always insist of mixing a round of free shots. There are even more things I'd like to douchebag, including my neighbor, my clock radio, my looming and extremely burdensome workload, grad school (per usual), bitches who spend Valentine's Day sober and watching The Vagina Monologues, Roger Clemens, and the show "Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant." I just don't have it in me today. Sorry, dudes. I'll hit y'all with a hot blast of Razzification as soon as I wake up. In the meantime, have a great weekend.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Razzification
Thursday, February 14, 2008
She's a Slut Machine by Patrick Swayze
I've always had a soft spot for the song "She's Like the Wind" by Patrick Swayze. Partly this is because it's one of my go-to karaoke songs and partly this is because I'm a sucker for hokey love songs. I have more than one Richard Marx song on my iTunes (not ashamed!) and although I loathe the movie Dirty Dancing, I can jam to "Hungry Eyes" and "Time of my Life" from the soundtrack, as well as "She's Like the Wind." Maybe this is part of the natural progression of aging. I know as my father got older, he started listening to almost as much "warm" or "soft" radio favorites as badass hits by Bachman-Turner Overdrive. I wouldn't be surprised if my growing fondness for cheesy 80s love songs was merely a symptom of being my father's daughter.
Anyway, yesterday "She's Like the Wind" came on TV during a commercial for Pedigree dog food, and I had an epiphany. This is one of the dirtiest songs ever written! Sure, it seems like nice, inoffensive fare appropriate for elevators and offices, but if you listen to the lyrics, they only make sense if you view them in a sexual context. How could a woman be "like the wind" other than by BLOWING?
She's like the wind through my tree
Translation: she gives great head
She rides the night next to me
Translation: she can fuck all night long
She leads me through moonlight
Translation: 2 a.m. booty call
Only to burn me with the sun
Translation: she's in a cab back to her place before dawn
She's taken my heart
Translation: she fucked poor Patrick into a state of deep smit
But she doesn't know what she's done
Translation: she's a skank ho who can't swing monogamy
Feel her breath on my face
Translation: she's panting because she's on top and getting her cardio on
Her body close to me
Translation: we fuckin'
Can't look in her eyes
Translation: now we fuckin' doggystyle
She's out of my league
Translation: you can't turn a ho into a housewife
Just a fool to believe
Translation: Patrick is concerned he might be thinking with his heart rather than his dick
I have anything she needs
Translation: anything she needs besides his weiner
She's like the wind
Translation: just to reiterate, she gives incredible head
[Saxophone solo--to enhance the sexy atmosphere]
I look in the mirror and all I see
Translation: I'm Patrick Swayze, star of Dirty Dancing and Roadhouse. I'm hot.
Is a young old man with only a dream
Translation: Patrick is wondering if she'd be down to have a threesome, as that's always been one of his fantasies
Am I just fooling myself
Translation: can I make a ho into a housewife? Maybe...
That she'll stop the pain?
Translation: am I a sex addict?
Living without her
I'd go insane
Translation: Patrick hates celibacy and requires regular pussy, and doesn't have any back-up bitches in his stable
I don't think any of you will ever be able to listen to "She's Like the Wind" with the same innocent sense of "awwww, what a cheesy song" again. Now all you're going to be thinking about is Patrick Swayze receiving fellatio from some accomplished skank with a spiral perm and a lace bodysuit right out of Sheena Easton's closet, which may be one of the most simultaneously frightening and hilarious images I've ever had in my head.
While this song was Patrick Swayze's sole success in the music industry, I think he should get a Grammy two decades later for his masterful lyricism. Who knew that he was like the 80s pop ballad version of R. Kelly? Patrick Swayze is the Pied Piper of Sappy One-Hit Wonders. Well played, Swayze. I only wish I would have appreciated your subtle genius sooner.
Anyway, yesterday "She's Like the Wind" came on TV during a commercial for Pedigree dog food, and I had an epiphany. This is one of the dirtiest songs ever written! Sure, it seems like nice, inoffensive fare appropriate for elevators and offices, but if you listen to the lyrics, they only make sense if you view them in a sexual context. How could a woman be "like the wind" other than by BLOWING?
She's like the wind through my tree
Translation: she gives great head
She rides the night next to me
Translation: she can fuck all night long
She leads me through moonlight
Translation: 2 a.m. booty call
Only to burn me with the sun
Translation: she's in a cab back to her place before dawn
She's taken my heart
Translation: she fucked poor Patrick into a state of deep smit
But she doesn't know what she's done
Translation: she's a skank ho who can't swing monogamy
Feel her breath on my face
Translation: she's panting because she's on top and getting her cardio on
Her body close to me
Translation: we fuckin'
Can't look in her eyes
Translation: now we fuckin' doggystyle
She's out of my league
Translation: you can't turn a ho into a housewife
Just a fool to believe
Translation: Patrick is concerned he might be thinking with his heart rather than his dick
I have anything she needs
Translation: anything she needs besides his weiner
She's like the wind
Translation: just to reiterate, she gives incredible head
[Saxophone solo--to enhance the sexy atmosphere]
I look in the mirror and all I see
Translation: I'm Patrick Swayze, star of Dirty Dancing and Roadhouse. I'm hot.
Is a young old man with only a dream
Translation: Patrick is wondering if she'd be down to have a threesome, as that's always been one of his fantasies
Am I just fooling myself
Translation: can I make a ho into a housewife? Maybe...
That she'll stop the pain?
Translation: am I a sex addict?
Living without her
I'd go insane
Translation: Patrick hates celibacy and requires regular pussy, and doesn't have any back-up bitches in his stable
I don't think any of you will ever be able to listen to "She's Like the Wind" with the same innocent sense of "awwww, what a cheesy song" again. Now all you're going to be thinking about is Patrick Swayze receiving fellatio from some accomplished skank with a spiral perm and a lace bodysuit right out of Sheena Easton's closet, which may be one of the most simultaneously frightening and hilarious images I've ever had in my head.
While this song was Patrick Swayze's sole success in the music industry, I think he should get a Grammy two decades later for his masterful lyricism. Who knew that he was like the 80s pop ballad version of R. Kelly? Patrick Swayze is the Pied Piper of Sappy One-Hit Wonders. Well played, Swayze. I only wish I would have appreciated your subtle genius sooner.
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
The Deadliest Pug
Yesterday it was very rainy, so I decided to deck Chingy! out in some weather-appropriate gear that one of his dogsitters bought for him. As if Chingy! isn't enough of an asshole, every time he goes to stay with one of his dogsitters, he returns with giant bags of treats, rawhides, bones (which are invariably appropriated by Caesar), personal furniture, toys, and doggity outerwear. I decided to see how Chingy! would like his rain slicker. As one might predict, Chingy! had zero interest in wearing this outfit out in the rain, and upon my putting it on him, returned to his previous position sleeping on my bed.
Somehow, I can't see Chingy! mining the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea for "red gold" like the ballsy crab fisherman of "Deadliest Catch." Chingy! is a far cry from the hotness that is Captain Sig Hansen, and he'd make for the laziest, least mobile, most useless greenhorn ever to set foot aboard the mighty F/V Northwestern. The only thing Chingy! would probably do right is the traditional Norwegian ritual of eating raw cod hearts to invoke favor with the gods of crabbing, and that's solely because Chingy! is known to love consuming disgusting shit. The only practical purpose I can see him serving on a boat is as ballast. His ass would be summarily fired, if he didn't get washed overboard first. Hell, even the Gorton's fisherman would probably fire him for sloth and incompetence, and the Gorton's fisherman is a made-up dude on a box of processed fish sticks.
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Deadliest Catch, doggity style, fat fucks, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Douchebag: Ray Nagin...AGAIN
RAZZY Note: this was written by BigBagel, managing editor of our Hate-On-Ray-Nagin department here in the old RAZZY.org newsroom. He is so hardcore about hating on Ray Nagin that he lives in New Orleans just to keep an eye on him, and homeskillet has an actual Pulitzer for his reportage. Seriously, this is a PULITZER PRIZE-WINNING JOURNALIST writing for my website. That's how we roll here at RAZZY.org: nothing but the best. I expect to get my own Pulitzer as soon as they invent one for blogging.
Name: Clarence Ray Nagin (on the right, with Police Superintendent Warren Riley)
DOB: June 11, 1956
Occupation: 68th Mayor of the City of New Orleans, Louisiana
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: (Better question for Nagin: Non-douchebaggery? )
This is Monsieur Nagin’s second trip to douchebag lane, so I thought it best to switch things up a bit and make it a photo caption contest. There’s so many places to go with Nagin's fucktardedness, I’m gonna struggle to remain focused on the above photo. Mostly, dear fellow Razzyphiles, I felt that this photo was too precious for the whole world not to see.
And I’d like you to view and caption this photo in the following context: Even though NOLA is down about 40% from its pre-Katrina population, the city has recaptured the title of America’s "murder capital", according to the FBI. (By that, they mean most murders per capita.) The city recorded a total of 209 homicides in 2007. Now to do a bit of crude math for you all, that means there’s about .696 murders per 1,000 population, making New Orleans more dangerous than the countries of Colombia and South Africa, and more than twice as dangerous as Jam-Rock Jamaica!
http://www.nationmaster.com/graph/cri_mur_percap-crime-murders-per-capita
So you’re probably asking yourself, is Nagin worried? Can he speak to us here in Razzyland? He can, in his own words: "Do I worry about it? Somewhat. It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there, and it keeps people thinking about our needs and what we need to bring this community back. So it is kind of a two-edged sword."
I was just wondering to myself if I should put the above picture into it's true context….nah! Considering the stakes of the game Nagin’s playing and the number of opportunistic self-serving fuck-ups he’s committed, I don’t think he’s earned any benefit of the doubt anymore. So without further ado I’m gonna end this and skip to my favorite captions from the NOLA.com blog this photo first appeared on and some a caption from colleagues at work. I encourage you Razzyphiles out there to come up with your own.
My favorite (from a colleague): "God this brings back memories, huh Ray? Remember we used one of these in our first convenience store hold up back in '78, out on Crowder. Man, that white bitch was so scared, I thought she was going to crap her pants."
My (pathetic) attempt: “No, really, I ain’t fuckin’ playin. Gimmee yo’ goddamn money.”
My favorite from the blog it first appeared on: "OK, lets go find Marc Morial!!"
(Morial=previous mayor of NOLA.)
Another good one: “City leaders unveil new throws for next years' Mardi Gras.”
So what you got, people of Razzyland?
[RAZZY Note #2: LL Cool Jew sent me this take on it. It's my favorite:
So get down to business coming up with captions of your own. LL Cool Jew says that she'll give me alcohol if I help her win the leftover plastic Mardi Gras tiara that her co-workers are offering to the best entry in their office caption contest. And if you didn't have enough douchebaggery on Nagin, read the article that was originally attached to this picture in the Times-Picayune (favorite newspaper name ever). Nagin actually takes time out of his photo op to welcome the NBA All-Stars to the city. With an assault rifle playfully pointed at the superintendent of the NOPD. Nice.]
!!!First ever Daily Douchebag photo caption contest!!!
(winner will bask in eternal glory)
(winner will bask in eternal glory)
Name: Clarence Ray Nagin (on the right, with Police Superintendent Warren Riley)
DOB: June 11, 1956
Occupation: 68th Mayor of the City of New Orleans, Louisiana
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: (Better question for Nagin: Non-douchebaggery? )
This is Monsieur Nagin’s second trip to douchebag lane, so I thought it best to switch things up a bit and make it a photo caption contest. There’s so many places to go with Nagin's fucktardedness, I’m gonna struggle to remain focused on the above photo. Mostly, dear fellow Razzyphiles, I felt that this photo was too precious for the whole world not to see.
http://www.nationmaster.com/graph/cri_mur_percap-crime-murders-per-capita
So you’re probably asking yourself, is Nagin worried? Can he speak to us here in Razzyland? He can, in his own words: "Do I worry about it? Somewhat. It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there, and it keeps people thinking about our needs and what we need to bring this community back. So it is kind of a two-edged sword."
I was just wondering to myself if I should put the above picture into it's true context….nah! Considering the stakes of the game Nagin’s playing and the number of opportunistic self-serving fuck-ups he’s committed, I don’t think he’s earned any benefit of the doubt anymore. So without further ado I’m gonna end this and skip to my favorite captions from the NOLA.com blog this photo first appeared on and some a caption from colleagues at work. I encourage you Razzyphiles out there to come up with your own.
My favorite (from a colleague): "God this brings back memories, huh Ray? Remember we used one of these in our first convenience store hold up back in '78, out on Crowder. Man, that white bitch was so scared, I thought she was going to crap her pants."
My (pathetic) attempt: “No, really, I ain’t fuckin’ playin. Gimmee yo’ goddamn money.”
My favorite from the blog it first appeared on: "OK, lets go find Marc Morial!!"
(Morial=previous mayor of NOLA.)
Another good one: “City leaders unveil new throws for next years' Mardi Gras.”
So what you got, people of Razzyland?
[RAZZY Note #2: LL Cool Jew sent me this take on it. It's my favorite:
Labels: BigBagel, Daily Douchebag, Dirrty Dirrty, guns, LL Cool Jew, politics
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Tania Derveaux
Name: Tania Derveaux
DOB: ???
Occupation: political whore...literally
Hometown: Antwerp, Belgium
Current residence: still Antwerp???
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I am waiting for Barnes and Noble to send me my latest hit of literary chronic, so in the meantime I'm rereading my favorite book, The Sun Also Rises. In an early scene from the book, the protagonist Jake Barnes is feeling self-loathing and lonely because he got his dick shot off in World War I and therefore can't bang his extra-slutty true love Lady Brett Ashley, so he picks up an ugly Parisian hooker with bad teeth to have dinner and pernod with. He tells her his name is Jacob, and she asks if he is Flemish. He reassures her that he is an American expatriate, and she says, "Good. I detest Flamands." I thought to myself, is there something really bad about the Belgians? What could possibly be bad about the Belgians?
That made me take a mental inventory of all the Belgian nationals I've ever known. Basically, I know one guy from grad school and that's it. He is very nice and I have no problem with him. So I went to the internets to find information about famous Belgians that might influence my opinions. Luckily, a site called famousbelgians.com exists as a primary source for exactly this type of research. Less luckily, I still hadn't heard of most of the people. There were three Nobel prizewinners I hadn't heard of, a couple tennis chicks I had heard of but had no opinion about other than "Clijsters" sounds like a lesbian porn if you glance at it real quick and replace the "j" with a "t" in your mind, and the Singing Nun, who I think sang a song in the sixties about the benefits of the Pill. I'm down with the Pill, and have nothing against tennis or Nobel peace prizes (excepting those that go to Al Gore), so thus far I couldn't find anything to despise about Flamands. The most famous name on the list I saw was Father Damien, who ran a leper colony in Molokai, Hawaii, and wound up dying of leprosy (don't fuck with genus Mycobacteria!), and in Catholic school my religion teachers were all over his nuts. So far, no bad Belgians! Then I smacked myself in the head...I had forgotten the most famous Belgian celebrity. She should be Belgium's fucking president. She is the greatest ambassador for Belgians in the entire world, and she is the reason I will never have anything against Flamands: Tania Derveaux!
If you're wondering "Tania Who?" trust that soon enough she'll be a household name. Tania Derveaux is a third-party candidate for the Belgian Senate, and is running on campaign promises to provide 400,000 jobs, and 40,000 of those will be of the "blow" variety.
However, I have faith that Tania probably just hasn't had time to work in the sex scenes--which will undoubtedly explain all the incongruous nonsense that's transpired thus far--because she's too busy sucking dick. Giving 80 blowjobs a day for two years would definitely sap me of a little enthusiasm for producing arthouse politically-motivated pornography on the side. My submandibular joint is aching with sympathy pains just thinking about that. I can be patient.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, international intrigue, nudity, politics, porn, sex, sluts
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kevin Federline
DOB: March 21, 1978
Occupation: father of the year, gold-digger of the century, public relations savant, true professional
Hometown: Fresno, California
Current residence: Santa Monica, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I certainly never, ever though I would write the words "Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kevin Federline." However, then I caught a little bit of last night's "One Tree Hill." Yes, I've seen a few episodes of "One Tree Hill," and no, I'm not ashamed of that. "Battlestar Galactica" I am ashamed of. Not that I ever watch "Battlestar Galactica." I mean, I watched it one...a few...okay, more than ten times. However, any viewing of "Battlestar Galactica" I've ever done has been purely an accident. None of the other channels were working. Yeah...that's it. None of the other channels were working or I would have watched something--ANYTHING--before I watched a nerd clusterfuck like "Battlestar Galactica." Anyway, I've seen "One Tree Hill" a couple times and I don't feel the overriding need to explain those viewings away with a pack of lies. There's no shame in watching a show about the sex lives of short, clumsy basketball-playing teens and the cheerleaders who love them. Plus, the guy who played John Sears, KEG house nemesis of Steve Sanders, would-be pedophile, and all-around asshole jerk, from "90210" is on it! I can't be ashamed of watching any show that includes a former Kelly Taylor love interest in its cast. Now, if only "Battlestar Galactica" would cast a Bev Niner alum...by accident. ANYWAY. Last night I watched "One Tree Hill," and Kevin Federline was on.
On the show, K-Fed plays a Linkin Park-flavored punk rock rapper guy. Think David Silver meets Pete Wentz, except in an extremely incestuous North Carolina small town. He has some drama with this other girl from the main cast. She was in his band and he slept with her and her slut friend or something, so she quit. Then she had some words with K-Fed, he talked shit, and subsequently earned himself a knuckle sandwich. It doesn't get more satisfying than that.
This should get a fucking Emmy. I'd like to see TV come up with something better than Kevin Federline acting like the asshole we all expect him to be. He calls someone a retard, calls her skank friend out for leaving her granny panties in his bed (insert "oh, SNAP!" here), and then slaps skank friend on the ass. Then, just when K-Fed thinks he's a hot piece of despicable shit, "Skills" Taylor clocks him in the face for being a disrespectful prick! AWESOME!!! Besides, if you were paying close attention to Kevin's temples, you noticed that the CEO of Federation Records is rocking a buzz fauxhawk--with a receding hairline! That takes serious balls. The only way this could get better is if Brenda Walsh showed up in a leather jacket/leather vest/camel toe-exposing high-waisted jeans combo and shrieked, "Look, I hate you both! Never talk to me again!"
Kevin Federline, who was previously famous for his fecundity and hip-hop cracker style, has managed to reinvent himself as a master of the acting craft. He was born to play douchebag white trash punk rocker/rappers who get their fake Ed Hardy shirt-wearing asses beat on CW shows. The FedEx should just throw on his street rocker hoodie and wait for the professional accolades to roll in. This was truly the year's finest TV moment. James Lipton best clear his schedule, because I definitely sense that an episode of "Inside the Actors' Studio" reviewing the achievements of K-Fed is forthcoming. I can't wait until K-Fed regales the drama geeks with tales of how he prepared to deliver lines like, "The only reason people were clappin' is that I told 'em you were retarded." Genius.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, Kevin Federline, TV
Daily Douchebag: Valentine's Day
DOB: ???--according to Wikipedia it didn't get popular as a Catholic party until the 15th century
Occupation: capitalism, insecurity
Hometown: Rome, since both of the St. Valentines that may have been the inspiration of this holiday have relics squirreled away on Via Whatevs somewheres about the Holy See
Current residence: EVERYWHERE
Douchebaggery: I'm not going to bother anyone with the trite single woman complaints about Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day is synonymous with two things: gangland massacres, and bitches freaking out. Those topics have been covered extensively, and I have better things to do than tread a path more well-worn than Belladonna's poopshoot. Excluding the whole "waaaah, I'm old and single" line of anti-Valentinianism, I still hate a whole bunch of things about Valentine's Day.
I frankly rejoice in my lack of coupling on Valentine's Day, because doing Valentinesy stuff is stressful and exhausting. Whenever I've had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day, I've always been freaking out shopping for the least pathetic "I Wuv You" funny card or trying to select a sufficiently meaningful shirt. I hate that shit and I'm not good at it. My skills lie in the bedroom, not the damn closet or jewelry drawer, and I never know what to get. Being single on Valentine's Day is actually a blessing, because adult Valentine's Day is far removed from kid Valentine's Day.
When I was in grade school, Valentine's Day was an excuse for your class to throw an orgy of candy-sharing. At my school, we had a rule that if you brought something for one person, you had to bring enough to share with the class. Translation: shell out for stamps and mail invitations if you're throwing an exclusive party. Since nobody wanted to bother with that, everyone brought valentines and everyone got candy. The only thing you had to do was pick up a $2.99 bag of Sweet Tarts and a box of Care Bear cards. It was minimally stressful and resulted in skipping a lame math or religion class to consume sugar and socialize. Adult Valentine's Day involves inordinate pressure to either get costly gifts or get depressed. Fuck that!
Oh, and yes, I know today is the day BEFORE Valentine's Day proper, but I would just rather ignore Valentine's Day when it actually happens. So this is the last time I'll mention it. This year.
Labels: Daily Douchebag
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Fool's-ish games
I was just trying to get some multitasking done, and by "multitasking" I mean doing technology analysis for my part-time job during commercials on "Nip/Tuck." My sojourn through a pharmaceutical industry market database was rudely interrupted by a seriously overexcited movie announcer bellowing "Fool's Gold is the NUMBER ONE MOVIE IN AMERICA." Try as I might to tune it out, I was getting so pissed off that I couldn't help but watch it, if only out of scientific curiosity regarding my capacity for rage. I was having major telecidal impulses (telecidal=when you want to make like the bumper sticker and kill your television) as a result.
Then, I had a revelation. I realized exactly what I hate about movies like Fool's Gold. I hate the bitches. I mean I REALLY hate them. Women are portrayed horribly in these crappy fucking chick flicks. Based on the ubiquitous and completely infuriating trailers, it seems that Kate Hudson spends 90% of the movie bitching at her poorly-groomed ex until all that hateful shrewishness makes her so horny that she throws herself at him like a yowling cat in desperate heat. What kind of self-respecting bitch wants to identify with that? If I had some lazy, long-haired hippie ex-husband with body odor (and I thank God smellevision hasn't been invented yet, because I shudder to think of what would offend my olfactory senses every time McConaughey's ass showed up onscreen), my reaction to his ass showing up would NOT involve humoring a desire to join him seeking mysterious Caribbean treasure. Even if I somehow concluded that such an endeavor would be beneficial to me in spite of my stank former spouse's shaggy ass hanging around, I would not get frustrated during my wild goose chase quest for sunken pieces of eight and fuck his busted ass out of desperation. Women like Kate Hudson's character in this movie aren't romantic or comical: they are petulant, nagging bitches who are sexually frustrated and pathetic. How the fuck am I supposed to either relate or aspire to that? I am insulted at the most fundamental level that Hollywood thinks I would or should.
That said, I've written the words "Fool's Gold" entirely too frequently for my liking. Next thing you know I'm going to start doing a "Daily Thing I Hate About Fool's Gold and Similar Shitty Fucking Valentine's Day Romantic Not-Funny Comedies." This has got to stop.
Then, I had a revelation. I realized exactly what I hate about movies like Fool's Gold. I hate the bitches. I mean I REALLY hate them. Women are portrayed horribly in these crappy fucking chick flicks. Based on the ubiquitous and completely infuriating trailers, it seems that Kate Hudson spends 90% of the movie bitching at her poorly-groomed ex until all that hateful shrewishness makes her so horny that she throws herself at him like a yowling cat in desperate heat. What kind of self-respecting bitch wants to identify with that? If I had some lazy, long-haired hippie ex-husband with body odor (and I thank God smellevision hasn't been invented yet, because I shudder to think of what would offend my olfactory senses every time McConaughey's ass showed up onscreen), my reaction to his ass showing up would NOT involve humoring a desire to join him seeking mysterious Caribbean treasure. Even if I somehow concluded that such an endeavor would be beneficial to me in spite of my stank former spouse's shaggy ass hanging around, I would not get frustrated during my wild goose chase quest for sunken pieces of eight and fuck his busted ass out of desperation. Women like Kate Hudson's character in this movie aren't romantic or comical: they are petulant, nagging bitches who are sexually frustrated and pathetic. How the fuck am I supposed to either relate or aspire to that? I am insulted at the most fundamental level that Hollywood thinks I would or should.
That said, I've written the words "Fool's Gold" entirely too frequently for my liking. Next thing you know I'm going to start doing a "Daily Thing I Hate About Fool's Gold and Similar Shitty Fucking Valentine's Day Romantic Not-Funny Comedies." This has got to stop.
Labels: celebrities, movies, ranting, retard rage
Jack off
I read on the gossip internets that Jack Nicholson claims the world's best pick-up line is as follows:
Why does Jack Nicholson need to use this strategy anyway? I realize that he's a septugenarian, but he's still Jack Fucking Nicholson! He's rich, he's famous, and he sits courtside at Laker games. I would think that even at his ripe old age, he could just pull out his weiner, say "I'm Jack Nicholson," and let the object of his affection put two and two together and start sucking. He doesn't need to waste time inventing negs or developing a lame "avatar" (another key feature of the Mystery Method, this involves coming up with an idiotic nickname like "Ajax" or "The Matador" and wearing absurd fashion ensembles that look like the bastard spawn of a pair of fuzzy dice and an off-the-rack pimp costume from Party World.) Jack Nicholson's star just faded dramatically now that I know he has to rely on seduction tactics commonly employed by socially inept fucktards who spend all their copious down time playing Halo and jacking off to Cinemax.
What a fucking loser. And that's not a neg fishing for action with Jack or anyone else attending Mystery's school of douchebaggery. That's just a straight-up neg for the sake of negativity.
"You walk up to someone you like and you're feeling relaxed, they think, 'Oh, here comes the shark' and you say to them, 'When did you get pregnant?' You will have somebody off balance after that particular line."Are you fucking kidding me? Jack Nicholson uses the fucking MYSTERY METHOD to pick up chicks? In case you don't know what the Mystery Method is, LL Cool Jew once described it as a means of "teaching ugly virgins to insult women they want to sleep with within three minutes of meeting them to confuse and unbalance them, thereby exploiting unstable women's attraction to emotional retards and abusers," resulting in "lots and lots of nerd virgins eager to pay Mystery to teach them what wife-beaters have known for years--that misogyny is a powerful aphrodisiac to insecure women." An essential concept in the Mystery Method skill set involves the use of "negs," which are backhanded compliments intended to lower a mark's "value," thus causing her to want to "qualify" to sleep with the dude doing the "negging" to compensate for her insecurities. I should add that this effect is enhanced by the dude "peacocking," which involves adorning oneself with garish fluffy tophats, chrome aviation goggles, and cloaks that look like something an Anne Rice-loving drag queen would rock at a Renaissance Faire. Woe betide the douchebag who attempts to bed me with such piss-poor game. For one thing, it's unnecessary since I'm a big slut. For another, it will only piss me off, and then we'll see who leaves the situation feeling insecure and unqualified. One time this fat, ugly guy peacocking with a combover, stonewashed jeans, and an appletini (*scoff*) rated me "a seven" after he rated LL Cool Jew--who is married and thus off the market--"a ten." As I was the available girl in our two-set, he was trying to make me want to bang him based on the fact that my friend is hotter than me. It failed. I gave him my best bitch-face and said, "Oh yeah? Well, you're a FOUR." Especially now that I've discovered a hidden talent for drink-throwing, the Mystery wannabes dropping negs on my Razzified ass like bombs on Hiroshima had best keep their distance and behave themselves if they don't want to be scrubbing scotch out of their crushed velvet lapels.
Why does Jack Nicholson need to use this strategy anyway? I realize that he's a septugenarian, but he's still Jack Fucking Nicholson! He's rich, he's famous, and he sits courtside at Laker games. I would think that even at his ripe old age, he could just pull out his weiner, say "I'm Jack Nicholson," and let the object of his affection put two and two together and start sucking. He doesn't need to waste time inventing negs or developing a lame "avatar" (another key feature of the Mystery Method, this involves coming up with an idiotic nickname like "Ajax" or "The Matador" and wearing absurd fashion ensembles that look like the bastard spawn of a pair of fuzzy dice and an off-the-rack pimp costume from Party World.) Jack Nicholson's star just faded dramatically now that I know he has to rely on seduction tactics commonly employed by socially inept fucktards who spend all their copious down time playing Halo and jacking off to Cinemax.
What a fucking loser. And that's not a neg fishing for action with Jack or anyone else attending Mystery's school of douchebaggery. That's just a straight-up neg for the sake of negativity.
Labels: assholes, LL Cool Jew, movies, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
I'm kind of a lesbian
Last night, at my friend Neo's birthday dinner, I was talking sex (what's new) with another friend from grad school, who I'll call RunnerGirl. Somehow it came up that I had wanted to bone her recent ex-boyfriend (who rejected me on grounds of "intimidation"), and we were laughing about it. Then RunnerGirl said something like, "Not that you care about that these days."
"Huh?" I said.
"Aren't you into girls now? That's what I heard," said RunnerGirl. Ah...God bless the grad student rumor mill, which churns 24/7 spewing filth like an industrial revolution-era coal-powered textile factory.
"Oh, I'm into everything now. I still like boys plenty. I'm a switch hitter," I explained. Later I started thinking about this. Just because recently I decided to be way more open and aggressive about pursuing honeys of the double-X karyotype, everyone now thinks I'm a lesbian!
I'm not sure who told RunnerGirl I'm rocking it on the full-time dyke tip, and I'm not mad at RunnerGirl or her source about it, but it's not really correct. People get really uptight about labels, but I don't really care about what people say about my sexuality. I mean, I also get called things like "slut" and "bitch," and it's no big thing for me. However, in the interest of accuracy, I am really bisexual. The truth is, I like the ladies a whole lot ever since I remembered that lezzie sex can be much more about hot carpet munching than processing and snuggling, but I'm never giving up the dick. Banging dudes is hella fun.
Granted, there have been a lot more scenes like this at grad school parties lately:
(That's actually not a grad student, but my friend Miss Corbutt at a party in Tacoma years ago, and we weren't so much having a hot makeout sesh as we were goofing around for the camera, hence it looks like I'm eating her face. Sadly, I couldn't dig up a more recent photo of myself sucking face with grad school chicks so I had to go with what I had, outdated as it is. Seriously, Miss Corbutt and I are like 22 in this picture.)
I've been doing a lot of girlie lip-locking with the various bi-curious hookers in grad school, and I guess that, along with my regular discussion of my sexual conquests with the fairer sex, has given people the erroneous impression that I am now ordering exclusively off the seafood menu. Again, it's not like I care or that I am insulted that the word on the street is I'm one mullet haircut away from being a total dyke, but I wonder why people feel the need to instantly apply the label "lesbian" just because I've taken a few dips in the tuna tank. Are people more comfortable with the idea that you're either gay or straight, and there's not anything in between? Because that's not the reality.
Almost every woman I know who considers herself a "lesbian" has slept with a man at some point. LL Cool Jew, who came out in junior high and was about as lesbish as it gets, married a man. I don't think BigBagel "converted" her, but he was an exception to her normal preference and just happened to be the love of her life. I don't really consider her "straight" even if she is in a monogamous heterosexual marriage. Likewise, my cousin's wife--after two hetero marriages and a string of boyfriends--left my cousin for another woman. I think more people are bisexual in one form or another at some point in their lives, and it's not like once you deviate from your usual sexual pattern, you commit to staying the deviant course permanently. For me, the usual course is nailing hot dudes, but I reserve the right to get my lipstick lezzie on whenever I feel like it. And not that I don't love women and like both giving and receiving cunnilingus, but it's not like pussy is so fucking fabulous that I'd never gaze covetously at an erect penis ever again.
I am curious as to why people are so quick to assign restrictively defined sexual labels based on who you are sleeping with today. Is it just easier to call someone a "lesbian" than acknowledge that most people live in a sexual gray area? Or is it because of disdain for bisexuality? Certainly, there are factions of the gay community that view bisexuality in a very negative light, as though bisexuals are too afraid to admit they're fully gay or straight people pissing on the gays' fire hydrant. There are also plenty of heterosexuals (usually the ones who think that God hates fags) who find bisexuals even more morally bereft than people who are strictly gay. Are people uncomfortable with the idea of bisexuality, and thus prefer to define others as 100% gay or straight? Or are people just confused about it? I'd love to hear what y'all Razzyphiles' thoughts are on the matter.
"Huh?" I said.
"Aren't you into girls now? That's what I heard," said RunnerGirl. Ah...God bless the grad student rumor mill, which churns 24/7 spewing filth like an industrial revolution-era coal-powered textile factory.
"Oh, I'm into everything now. I still like boys plenty. I'm a switch hitter," I explained. Later I started thinking about this. Just because recently I decided to be way more open and aggressive about pursuing honeys of the double-X karyotype, everyone now thinks I'm a lesbian!
I'm not sure who told RunnerGirl I'm rocking it on the full-time dyke tip, and I'm not mad at RunnerGirl or her source about it, but it's not really correct. People get really uptight about labels, but I don't really care about what people say about my sexuality. I mean, I also get called things like "slut" and "bitch," and it's no big thing for me. However, in the interest of accuracy, I am really bisexual. The truth is, I like the ladies a whole lot ever since I remembered that lezzie sex can be much more about hot carpet munching than processing and snuggling, but I'm never giving up the dick. Banging dudes is hella fun.
Granted, there have been a lot more scenes like this at grad school parties lately:
I've been doing a lot of girlie lip-locking with the various bi-curious hookers in grad school, and I guess that, along with my regular discussion of my sexual conquests with the fairer sex, has given people the erroneous impression that I am now ordering exclusively off the seafood menu. Again, it's not like I care or that I am insulted that the word on the street is I'm one mullet haircut away from being a total dyke, but I wonder why people feel the need to instantly apply the label "lesbian" just because I've taken a few dips in the tuna tank. Are people more comfortable with the idea that you're either gay or straight, and there's not anything in between? Because that's not the reality.
Almost every woman I know who considers herself a "lesbian" has slept with a man at some point. LL Cool Jew, who came out in junior high and was about as lesbish as it gets, married a man. I don't think BigBagel "converted" her, but he was an exception to her normal preference and just happened to be the love of her life. I don't really consider her "straight" even if she is in a monogamous heterosexual marriage. Likewise, my cousin's wife--after two hetero marriages and a string of boyfriends--left my cousin for another woman. I think more people are bisexual in one form or another at some point in their lives, and it's not like once you deviate from your usual sexual pattern, you commit to staying the deviant course permanently. For me, the usual course is nailing hot dudes, but I reserve the right to get my lipstick lezzie on whenever I feel like it. And not that I don't love women and like both giving and receiving cunnilingus, but it's not like pussy is so fucking fabulous that I'd never gaze covetously at an erect penis ever again.
I am curious as to why people are so quick to assign restrictively defined sexual labels based on who you are sleeping with today. Is it just easier to call someone a "lesbian" than acknowledge that most people live in a sexual gray area? Or is it because of disdain for bisexuality? Certainly, there are factions of the gay community that view bisexuality in a very negative light, as though bisexuals are too afraid to admit they're fully gay or straight people pissing on the gays' fire hydrant. There are also plenty of heterosexuals (usually the ones who think that God hates fags) who find bisexuals even more morally bereft than people who are strictly gay. Are people uncomfortable with the idea of bisexuality, and thus prefer to define others as 100% gay or straight? Or are people just confused about it? I'd love to hear what y'all Razzyphiles' thoughts are on the matter.
Labels: grad school bullshit, lezbollah, Razzification, sex
Daily Douchebag: Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus
DOB: November 23, 1992 (holy crap, I was a FRESHMAN IN HIGH SCHOOL when this ho slithered out of her mother's cooch...God I am old)
Occupation: tween idol, future porn star
Hometown: Franklin, Tennessee
Current residence: the eternal Disney media whore circuit
Douchebaggery: All the kids these days are into this "Hannah Montana" thing, although I have no idea what it's about because I hate kids and avoid things kids like the way an evangelical Christian would have avoided a gay AIDS patient circa 1985. I know that "Hannah Montana" is some Disney channel show about a broad who spends half her time as a normal teenager and half her time in disguise as a world-famous pop star, and that sole factoid enrages me. Seriously, they had this show millions of years ago (the 80s) when I was a kid, except it was a cartoon and the lead character was named Jem. I doubt that Miley/Hannah could ever pull off something as dope as keeping her secret pink hair tucked up in a blue-and-white striped beret while she did her philanthropy work like Jem did, because unlike the frontwoman of the Holograms, Miley/Hannah is a far cry from truly, truly, truly outrageous.
Like Jem, however, Miley/Hannah's music is apparently contagious, because there are moms planning contract killings, running elaborate fraud scams based on essays about non-existent soldier fathers being killed in combat in Iraq, and otherwise going crazy to secure tickets for their kids to her concert. Two weeks ago, a 3-D movie of this same concert was the number one movie in America, which reminds me that in addition to jacking Jem's game, Miley/Hannah appropriated the title of Jay-Z and R. Kelly's ultimately doomed collaboration album Best of Both Worlds for her tour. Sadly, I imagine Miley/Hannah's tour doesn't include musical numbers with titles like "Take You Home With Me AKA Body" and "Pussy." At least she had the decency not to try and duplicate the magic that is Kells and Jigga. I'd get all "Trapped in the Closet" (ie: pull out my fake Beretta and make dramatic expressions) on her ass if she ever had the audacity to sing lines like "your body's cut just like my jewelry" (or "jewlery", as Kells pronounces it) or "ain't got a gun but my wrist said 'freeze'."
However, her Disney bastardization of great American franchises like Jem or Robert Sylvester Kelly are only part of the reason why I dislike Miley/Hannah. HotLawyer and I summed it up best in a text conversation we had the other night during the Grammys.
HotLawyer: Hannah montana is so ugly. I hate herI don't know how someone can start looking like an overbukkaked skank at the age of fifteen, but I guess that's just how it goes when your dad is a country line dancing crossover one-hit wonder and he reared you with aspirations of logarithmically exceeding his achievements in media whoredom. I can't get into any kid who looks like she should be getting DPed on a grainy webcam rather than singing wholesome songs about being a positive role model for little girls. This slag isn't going away, so I expect her to disrupt cultural treasures that I enjoy for some time to come (TRUST that Chris Hansen will be doing "To Catch a Predator" episodes fraught with gross instant message references offering Hannah Montana merchandise as incentive to try pedophile anal).
Razzy: She looks like some porn skank in a max hardcore movie
HotLawyer: Her face is busted. Ten bucks says she winds up doing gutter porn in five years
Razzy: True dat
There is so far virtually no backlash over the overexposure of this prostitute with the exception of the sages at Consumer Reports. They are coming down hard on Miley/Hannah for some scene in her concert movie where Billy Ray Cyrus is driving her around Tennessee and she's singing in the back seat or something with NO SEAT BELT. Since according to their stats, 65 percent of teenagers in fatal traffic accidents aren't buckled in (a trend I support since it means fewer kids around to annoy me), Miley/Hannah is endorsing death by reckless disregard for legally mandated highway safety measures. I wish she would lead by example. Nothing would be better than a "Hannah Montana" movie in which she and her Achy Breaky daddy went through the windshield of their Range. Alas, maybe someday.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, HotLawyer, media whores, porn, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Neo
DOB: February 11, 1979
Occupation: grad student, dog lover
Hometown: Bristol, Rhode Island
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Yesterday I got so hot and bothered by Brad Paisley that I pulled a serious bad friend move...I neglected to bestow "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" honors to my dear friend Neo on her birthday. Bad Razzy, bad! So I'm rectifying this oversight immediately.
Neo was my first grad school friend. We lived in the same Columbia building and one day realized that we both smoked cigarettes. During our first year of grad school, we'd hang out at one of our apartments and drink the cases of wine I'd blow my stipend checks on and chain-smoke Parliaments (although she later switched to Camels, and now she's smoke-free). She's got great mother hen instincts, so when I would procrastinate and not start doing a take-home exam we'd been given a week to complete until the night before, she'd show up unannounced at my apartment with coffee and words of encouragement. Then when the exam was over, we'd watch "Sex and the City" DVDs until we came down from all the coffee and the Red Bull.
Although I eventually had to bail out of that building on account of my excess of dogs and get a bigger place, Neo and I are still good buddies. She dogsits Caesar for me when I go out of town, and even likes Chingy! (sort of). We hang out a lot and bitch about grad school. Whenever she starts talking about her thesis project, I have no idea what the fuck she's having issues with because she does NMR, and that's a level of hardcore biochemistry that I NEVER aspire to undestand. Neo is a math whiz and spends all day setting up complicated calculus-looking algorithms and writing computer programs, and the second she starts talking about matrices and peaks and whatnot, I am totally lost. She, on the other hand, earnestly puts all her effort into learning what my project is about, even when I'm not in the mood. When we first got to grad school, I spent many a drunken night drawing diagrams of various immunological processes for her (I used to be in the T cell-slanging business before I came to grad school and got into the picornavirus game), and she was a dedicated student. Even though it has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with her work, she can still explain VDJ recombination as the basis for specific adaptive immunity like a fucking pro because she is so genuinely interested in learning.
Neo and I disagree on a whole lot of things. We have radically different political views. She loves conspiracy theories and buys all the 9/11-was-an-inside-job crap, and we've had crazy arguments about it. However, then we can always find a meeting of the minds when we trade books about Genghis Khan or mutinies aboard 19th century Nantucket whaleboats. Then we eat some pork chops and watch "The Simpsons" and bond over the crappy psychiatric care we've received at the hands of Columbia University. Both of us saw the same drug-pushing shrink, and no matter what we're arguing about, we can always commiserate about how he would grab his Lexapro prescription pad and his Lexapro pen and insist we take Lexapro. We can laugh about our loser ex-boyfriends and people we hate in grad school. We always find common ground in spite of our many differences. We didn't even get into a fight when we watched the AFC Championship game this year and I was hollering about the Chargers (Neo is a Patriots fan). I commended her on a far superior drawing of Pat Patriot on her bar placemat-turned-impromptu cheering sign than the Chargers lightning bolt I drew on mine, and she complimented my franchise Fantasy running back LaDanian "Not to be Confused with Lawrence Taylor" Tomlinson for his Robocop-esque shaded helmet visor, and then we ate nachos and drank Bud Light and had a grand time.
Neo's a hot piece, and I'm so glad we ran into each other that fateful day we were both getting our nicotine fix prior to a first-year biochemistry class. She's a good friend and I'm honored to have spent last night sucking down red wine and spicy sausages at her birthday party. Happy day after your birthday, Neo! Love you so.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style, grad school bullshit, Neo
Monday, February 11, 2008
Celebrity endorsement of the year up for grabs
Apparently Hayden Panettiere, the fucking moron who is on "Heroes" or some show I don't watch, is not going to shut up about her lame-ass "Save the Whales" crap. As if anyone cares, Hayden decided to give Chelsea Clinton an ultimatum to pass along to her mother: she'll only vote for the candidate who will save the whales. I bet Hillary is going to get right on that. Because in the grand hierarchy of problems facing America, the handful of non-endangered whales that get eaten in Japanese, Norwegian, and Icelandic specialty seafood restaurants are right up there with the Iraq War and the tanking economy.
I know all the current presidential candidates are totally freaking out over the prospect of not getting the votes of Hayden Panettiere and her hippie whale-saving surfer friends. I mean, there's probably at least five people out there who aren't going to support anyone that doesn't have the approval of this dumb, barely enfranchised poor man's Lindsay Lohan.
Barack Obama better watch out, because he might have Oprah stumping for him, but if he doesn't start talking more about his plan for the whales than his (unfeasible) universal health care bullshit, he's not getting Hayden's vote! At least I can rest easy that my boy John McCain is like, "Whales? What whales?" and I won't have Hayden standing next to me at any political rallies. Well, okay, I'm too lazy to actually go to any McCain rallies but let's pretend that I did, and that somehow I got into the VIP supporter section hanging around with the Hollywood heavyweights and McCain's hot power lesbian wife Cindy and cantankerous mom Roberta. Hypothetically, I'd be totally annoyed if Hayden Panettiere was there wearing a stupid pair of tortoise-rimmed Wayfarers and lecturing everyone sanctimoniously about how whales aren't fish, they're marine mammals with feelings and cute babies.
Actually, I secretly hope that the only candidate who speaks out for the whales is Mike Huckabee. I just want to see Hayden going to the polls in a Huckabee shirt with Chuck Norris and supporting a candidate who equates homosexuality to bestiality and plans to make the U.S. a theocracy. Not that Huckabee (or anyone) is going to rally for the cause of the whales, as we have better things to do than pick a fight with Japan, Norway, and Iceland for their limited whaling practices, but something about the idea of Hayden joining Team Huckabee just makes me smile. Really, all you'd have to do is give her the idea that "sins" is synonymous with "whales," and Hayden will sign right up the second Huckabee tells her that Jesus died to save our sins and he wants to alter our Constitution to reflect this. Trust.
I know all the current presidential candidates are totally freaking out over the prospect of not getting the votes of Hayden Panettiere and her hippie whale-saving surfer friends. I mean, there's probably at least five people out there who aren't going to support anyone that doesn't have the approval of this dumb, barely enfranchised poor man's Lindsay Lohan.
Actually, I secretly hope that the only candidate who speaks out for the whales is Mike Huckabee. I just want to see Hayden going to the polls in a Huckabee shirt with Chuck Norris and supporting a candidate who equates homosexuality to bestiality and plans to make the U.S. a theocracy. Not that Huckabee (or anyone) is going to rally for the cause of the whales, as we have better things to do than pick a fight with Japan, Norway, and Iceland for their limited whaling practices, but something about the idea of Hayden joining Team Huckabee just makes me smile. Really, all you'd have to do is give her the idea that "sins" is synonymous with "whales," and Hayden will sign right up the second Huckabee tells her that Jesus died to save our sins and he wants to alter our Constitution to reflect this. Trust.
Labels: celebrities, John McCain, politics, retard rage, sluts
Oompa loompa loompity-do, I've got another puzzle for you
Specifically, puzzle me this: Would you ever hire THIS man to do public relations for you?
This is Elliot Mintz, PR guy to the stars. His face is orange, his jacket looks like wedding present wrapping paper from the '80s, and his Grecian Formula bleach job is desperate for a root touch-up. And he's carrying a clutch! Not a man purse or a briefcase but an honest-to-God satin clutch! No matter how bad a celebrity gaffe I'd committed, I can't imagine that it would get better with this freak doing damage control. I'd rather hire the legendary Ms. Britney Spears to manage my image. At least that British accent would lend a touch of class, unlike Elliot Mintz's tangerine face paint. I mean, how could you not want a woman with such style and grace doing the same for YOUR image?
And on an aside, Britney was robbed at the Grammys last night. Blackout wasn't even nominated for anything! How could lyrics like "It's Britney, bitch!" and "Cold as fire, baby, hot as ice, if you've ever been to heaven this is twice as nice" been so uncermoniously snubbed? BULLSHIT! Anyway, in spite of Britney's obvious future potential as a public relations master, Elliot Mintz is somehow one of the hardest-working PR reps in Hollywood on account of his most notorious client: Paris Hilton.
Of course this is the man Paris turns to when she has some kind of PR drama. I can see why she's known for being a talentless hack whose only claim to celebrity is inherited wealth and legendary skankiness. With Elliot Mintz spinning her media persona, I can't even believe that her star power has managed to survive starring in racist videos or being outed as one of the most infamous herpes epidemic index cases since Michael "Ron Mexico" Vick. She should, by all rights have succumbed to the public backlash that threatens to consume her long ago. I mean, this moron finally got fired by Paris for telling her that she was allowed to drive on a suspended license, thus resulting in her dramatic incarceration...and then REHIRED. Because every herpetic slag needs a garishly-clad Oompa Loompa providing counsel that is as inadvisable as Mintz's taste in blazers. On the bright side, with this guy at the helm, it's only a matter of time before the Paris star is so thoroughly extinguished that she'll be lucky to get a job handing out $1 off coupons outside a fucking Subway. I'd expect that he's got some connections for getting Paris into the chocolate factory slave-labor business though. Hopefully she'll be on the Everlasting Gobstopper assembly line any time now.
Of course this is the man Paris turns to when she has some kind of PR drama. I can see why she's known for being a talentless hack whose only claim to celebrity is inherited wealth and legendary skankiness. With Elliot Mintz spinning her media persona, I can't even believe that her star power has managed to survive starring in racist videos or being outed as one of the most infamous herpes epidemic index cases since Michael "Ron Mexico" Vick. She should, by all rights have succumbed to the public backlash that threatens to consume her long ago. I mean, this moron finally got fired by Paris for telling her that she was allowed to drive on a suspended license, thus resulting in her dramatic incarceration...and then REHIRED. Because every herpetic slag needs a garishly-clad Oompa Loompa providing counsel that is as inadvisable as Mintz's taste in blazers. On the bright side, with this guy at the helm, it's only a matter of time before the Paris star is so thoroughly extinguished that she'll be lucky to get a job handing out $1 off coupons outside a fucking Subway. I'd expect that he's got some connections for getting Paris into the chocolate factory slave-labor business though. Hopefully she'll be on the Everlasting Gobstopper assembly line any time now.
Labels: celebrities, oh the horror, overcompensation, sluts, you're ugly
Fool's rush in
I am having a hard time figuring out who I'd like to hit because I'm really not in any kind of mood to declare my love or fondness for any person or group of people today, as today is actually Sunday night and I'm still hung over from Saturday night's disaster of scotch and personal drama. Although I got over the personal drama, I'm still suffering the physical sequelae of consuming approximately eight glasses of Johnnie Walker Black Label blended scotch, followed by at least two Jaegermeister shots. I'm so sick I even had to call in sick from a date, which is really lame, but my dry heaving-ass is no condition for romance. I want to get an early start in the old laboratory tomorrow, so I figured I'd do my blogging tonight and publish it tomorrow and save myself some time in the morning. Clever, eh? Anyway, since while waiting for the Grammys to start I was just convalescing in my bed flipping between "American Gladiators" and a "Rock of Love" rerun I've now seen approximately eighty-five times, I might as well get tomorrow's--which is now today's--posts rode hard and put away wet, or whatever it is real journalists say when they finish writing.
This movie basically consists of Kate Hudson being a whiny shrew in various tropical locations, and Matthew McConaughey looking like an unshorn hippie with a penchant for making the Hollywood version of Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning's typical slack-jawed yokel expression. And would someone kindly tell me why bitches think this dude is hot? He's like the Mel Gibson of his generation: inexplicably being heralded three years ago as "the sexiest man alive" and boasting a massive following of older ladies who fantasize about being wrapped in his stumpy Tyrannosaurus rex arms. I'll pass.
In addition to the mystery of McConaughey's alleged good looks, I have never understood romantic comedies, and I have ESPECIALLY never understood romantic action/adventure comedies. Why is it funny that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey spend a movie engaging in a lot of inane banter that is supposed to pass for sexual tension while looking for some historically implausible treasure? I don't want their annoying asses flirting or getting rich via acquisition of sunken doubloons or doing anything else except maybe dying in a freak woodchipper accident. I mean, thanks to the incessant trailers for this clusterfuck of irritation I know that in one scene they go down in a seaplane crash, but the chances that this means a grisly death for the lead actors are slim. They probably swim out unscathed, kiss, and make banal quips at each other. I didn't see what kind of proven onscreen chemistry the idiots are flocking to the theaters for as I didn't see How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (obviously), but I'm pretty sure that it was just as formulaic and fucking stupid. Adding an element of danger in the form of some bullshit treasure hunt doesn't make an already bad movie funnier. Besides, there was only one movie where this kind of premise ever worked, and Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey are not Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas, and Fool's Gold is a pale imitation of the greatness that is Romancing the Stone.
Anyway, I was trying to think about who I would want to hit besides myself, and I was idly skimming the weekend's news and came upon a report of this weekend's box office returns. This put any notion of lauding anybody or anything far, far out of my mind:
LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- "Fool's Gold" found real treasure as the romantic adventure starring Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson led the weekend box office with a $22 million debut.
Martin Lawrence's family reunion comedy "Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins" opened at No. 2 with $17.1 million, according to studio estimates Sunday.
Disney's "Hannah Montana & Miley Cyrus: Best of Both Worlds Concert," the 3-D concert film that was the previous weekend's top movie, fell to third place with $10.5 million, a sharp drop from its $31.1 million opening. The movie has grossed $53.4 million after 10 days.
Ugh. Good thing I didn't make any movie plans this weekend, because I would rather see the movie that just had a trailer on Vh1. I didn't catch the name, but the trailer started with "The safety of a federal witness is in the hands of ONE MAN...LARRY THE CABLE GUY." In fact, I would rather sit through fucking Cocoon--which is one of the most appalling cinematic shitshows of all time as it features old people in bathing suits and having sex--in 3-D IMAX than see any of these films. but ESPECIALLY Fool's Gold. I've been seeing Fool's Gold trailers ad nauseum for the last week and at this point, I think I would instantly kick anyone who suggested I see Fool's Gold squarely in their genitalia on principle, because anyone who wants to see this garbage should be prevented from reproducing by any means necessary. Humanity does not need any more people creating a market for movies like Fool's Gold, since the gene pool already has enough alleles conferring stupidity floating around in it.
Wait, even though people who watch and judge movies professionally universally hated it, Americans were lining up to see Fool's Gold because they just fucking love to see two hours of "a divorced couple reunited in a quest for 18th-century treasure lost at sea."? How could you hate that? It sounds hilarious! I'd love to see two fucking hours of compelling scenes such as these:Released by Warner Bros., "Fool's Gold" came in a bit under the $23.8 million opening of McConaughey and Hudson's hit romance "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days," which debuted over the same pre-Valentine's Day weekend in 2003.
With Valentine's Day on Thursday, the studio is counting on "Fool's Gold" to hold up well, said Jeff Goldstein, Warner vice president of distribution.
Critics hated "Fool's Gold" but audiences were eager to catch McConaughey and Hudson, who play a divorced couple reunited in a quest for 18th-century treasure lost at sea.
"A great marketing campaign, two appealing stars, and reviews be damned," said Paul Dergarabedian, president of box-office tracker Media By Numbers. "Heading into Valentine's week, it's sort of a natural."
In addition to the mystery of McConaughey's alleged good looks, I have never understood romantic comedies, and I have ESPECIALLY never understood romantic action/adventure comedies. Why is it funny that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey spend a movie engaging in a lot of inane banter that is supposed to pass for sexual tension while looking for some historically implausible treasure? I don't want their annoying asses flirting or getting rich via acquisition of sunken doubloons or doing anything else except maybe dying in a freak woodchipper accident. I mean, thanks to the incessant trailers for this clusterfuck of irritation I know that in one scene they go down in a seaplane crash, but the chances that this means a grisly death for the lead actors are slim. They probably swim out unscathed, kiss, and make banal quips at each other. I didn't see what kind of proven onscreen chemistry the idiots are flocking to the theaters for as I didn't see How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (obviously), but I'm pretty sure that it was just as formulaic and fucking stupid. Adding an element of danger in the form of some bullshit treasure hunt doesn't make an already bad movie funnier. Besides, there was only one movie where this kind of premise ever worked, and Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey are not Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas, and Fool's Gold is a pale imitation of the greatness that is Romancing the Stone.
People are fucking stupid and have horrible taste. I have realized that my esteem for my fellow man is inversely proportional to my fellow man's willingness to drop their hard-earned cash on movies like Fool's Gold. This makes me pray that some kind of apocalyptic cataclysm results in the end of culture as we know it, because I would rather live in a Mad Max-type of world where I engage in vicious shotgun and blast fuse-mediated battles for petrol with gay BDSM bikers in the Australian outback than in one where people line up to see Fool's Gold like lemmings at a goddamned cliff. No fucking thank you. I do NOT approve.
Labels: assholes, movies, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage
RIP Chief Brody
I was very sad to hear that Roy Scheider passed away at the age of 75 this weekend. He had multiple myeloma and he was old anyway, but I still experienced a pang of sadness at the news. As far as movies go, there are a few that had a dramatic impact on my world. In no particular order, these films include The Ten Commandments, Gone With the Wind, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, The Naked Gun, Aliens, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, Robocop, Romancing the Stone, The Running Man, and Ruthless People. However, while all these movies are my treasured favorites, there is one film that rises above all of them in terms of having the most lasting effect on me: Jaws.
I saw Jaws when I was five, because I desperately wanted to see it and finally my mom relented. It's rated PG, after all, and the worst language in it ("smile, you son-of-a...") is obscured by an exploding scuba tank in the shark's mouth. She figured it wouldn't be the worst thing if I saw Jaws since I wanted to so badly. I decided after a trip to Sea World when I was three that my life's ambition was to be a marine biologist, and I determined that seeing Jaws was critical to my training as such. It turns out that this would have been better left out of my early childhood marine biology curriculum, because it convinced me that great white sharks like to eat girls, and are so terrifying they can come onto land. Although that didn't happen in Jaws, I wasn't entirely sure something as determinedly hungry as the shark wouldn't get under the carpet in the hallway at my parents' house, and swim up to my room and pluck me from my day bed like some kind of little girl midnight snack. I insisted that my parents turn the hall light on and leave my door open so I could see that inevitable dorsal fin when it came swimming up the carpet to get me and try to avoid it as best as possible. That arrangement lasted for seven years, until I finally conceded that great whites couldn't swim up carpeted hallways in junior high.
Although I started off being terrified out of my wits by Jaws, this movie became one of my favorites. It's awesome and fun to watch, and I realized in hindsight that Chief Brody is a hot piece. He spends most of the movie smoking, drinking giant tumblers of wine, and fighting with the local bureaucrats, and then he conquers his fear of water to blow up the shark with a scuba tank and his trusty thirty-ought. He was even hot shit when he was up to his rolled-up shirtsleeves in fish guts working the shark boat's chum station.
The world is a less sexy place now that Chief Brody isn't running around keeping the beaches of New England safe from marauding sharks. Alas.
I saw Jaws when I was five, because I desperately wanted to see it and finally my mom relented. It's rated PG, after all, and the worst language in it ("smile, you son-of-a...") is obscured by an exploding scuba tank in the shark's mouth. She figured it wouldn't be the worst thing if I saw Jaws since I wanted to so badly. I decided after a trip to Sea World when I was three that my life's ambition was to be a marine biologist, and I determined that seeing Jaws was critical to my training as such. It turns out that this would have been better left out of my early childhood marine biology curriculum, because it convinced me that great white sharks like to eat girls, and are so terrifying they can come onto land. Although that didn't happen in Jaws, I wasn't entirely sure something as determinedly hungry as the shark wouldn't get under the carpet in the hallway at my parents' house, and swim up to my room and pluck me from my day bed like some kind of little girl midnight snack. I insisted that my parents turn the hall light on and leave my door open so I could see that inevitable dorsal fin when it came swimming up the carpet to get me and try to avoid it as best as possible. That arrangement lasted for seven years, until I finally conceded that great whites couldn't swim up carpeted hallways in junior high.
Although I started off being terrified out of my wits by Jaws, this movie became one of my favorites. It's awesome and fun to watch, and I realized in hindsight that Chief Brody is a hot piece. He spends most of the movie smoking, drinking giant tumblers of wine, and fighting with the local bureaucrats, and then he conquers his fear of water to blow up the shark with a scuba tank and his trusty thirty-ought. He was even hot shit when he was up to his rolled-up shirtsleeves in fish guts working the shark boat's chum station.
Labels: hot dudes, movies, people who died, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Brad Paisley
DOB: October 28, 1972
Occupation: hot piece country singer
Hometown: Glen Dale, West Virginia
Current residence: Franklin, Tennessee
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: LL Cool Jew and I were texting during the Grammys last night, and I was explaining how I was thus far underwhelmed. No Britney Spears...as a country singer I had never heard of named Brad Paisley took the stage. Well, I'd heard his name before, but normally I have very little interest in country singers unless they are named Toby Keith and sing about drinking beer out of mason jars and putting boots in people's asses. However then I noticed two undeniable things: Brad Paisley is hot, and his song is called "I'd Like to Check You For Ticks." I immediately texted LL Cool Jew to express my feelings. Great minds think alike, because she was simulaneously sending me similar sentiments.
Razzy: Meantime this country guy is kind of hotDamn, if I ain't a sucker for these hot-ass hayseeds. They are the source of many of my trials and tribulations, but hell if I don't love banging a fine hick who knows his way around guns and trucks. I just love a fella who talks about hunting and writes lyrics like "you press that bottle to your lips and I wish I was your beer", "In the small there of your back your jeans are playing peek-a-boo, I'd like to see the other half of your butterfly tattoo," and "Don't worry, I've got your back, babe...and I've also got your front." He reassures the lady in this song that on account of his superior level of "class," he's going to be a gentleman while he checks her tramp stamp for bloodsucking arthropods. Not every guy at the bar would be so considerate as to disguise his outdoor moonlight groping as an effort to protect her from Lyme's borreliosis, babesiosis, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, or anything else of the pathogen variety that happens to prefer transmission via tick blood meals. Brad Paisley doesn't want his drunken redneck hookups to be tainted by any type of vector-borne rickettsial infection. Nothing fucks up a hot date like catching a nasty case of ehrlichosis. He's a fine country boy who probably smells like Old Spice and tractor oil, he knows how to spit some truly accomplished cracker game, and he's an amateur microbiogist to boot. In other words, he's totally my future husband.
LL Cool Jew: dude this song is called "i want 2 check u 4 ticks"!!!! brad paisley rules
Razzy: I'll check u 4 ticks. Be still my heart.
LL Cool Jew: "i know this place out in these woods i used to hunt"......
Razzy: I'd like him to check me with his dick
LL Cool Jew: we gotta daily dude brad paisley
Razzy: Totz.
Sadly, Brad is already married. A hot piece like him only stays on the market so long, and he married the chick who was in Father of the Bride. They have one son together, with the best PWT name of all time: William Huckleberry Paisley. Hopefully they'll divorce so I can get down to business making more cracker babies, or at least having all the sex that baby-making implies with Brad Paisley. He is hot and I'm downloading some of his shit presently. Hey, he has a song called "Alcohol"! Awesome.
Really, the country singers are the only guys that made this year's Grammys watchable. Vince Gill got some type of country award given by Ringo Starr and said, "I just got an award from a Beatle...Kanye, has that happened to you, yet?" And Taylor Swift was dressed like some kind of cross between a boudoir lampshade and medieval courtesan and making total porn star face at Jay-Z. Awesome. I need to listen to more country music.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, PWT
Daily Douchebag: Debbie Clemens
DOB: ????
Occupation: designing hideous mom fashion, popping out kids with names starting with K as a monument to her husband's ego, getting juiced
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Houston, Texas
Douchebaggery: I prayed that the first time I caught an eyeful of Roger and Debbie Clemens' nauseating Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition photo spread would also be my last. It was full of things I hated: Roger Clemens, Roger Clemens in a Yankees uniform, Roger Clemens in a Yankees uniform left unbuttoned to showcase Roger's (vomit) manly chest (and isn't the SI swimsuit issue supposed to be something people WANT to jerk off to?), and Roger Clemens's old-ass wife Photoshopped to look like a tranny bodybuilder and posing in a bikini with a big phallic baseball bat. ***SHUDDER***
Unfortunately, I now have to look at this loathsome image on the regular thanks to Brian McNamee's testimony before the congressional committee investigating all the steroids-in-baseball Mitchell report BS. It seems that not only does McNamee have bloody HGH-filled syringes with the Rocket's DNA on them from when he used to work as his personal roid administrator, he also shot up Debbie so that she could pose for this very photo shoot. Debbie was apparently worried that, as a thirty-nine-year-old mother of four demon spawn, there wouldn't be a strong enough version of Photoshop to make her FUPA look toned, so she decided that if recombinant growth hormone was good enough to keep aging fastball pitchers coming back from retirement to further the devil's influence by winning games for those despicable bastards in the Bronx, it was good enough to make her look like some kind of Terminator MILF.
I am unhappy with all this disappointing steroids crap ruining America's game. I have previously detailed my extremely negative opinion of cheaters like Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens (I don't believe his denials--vitamin B12 shots or whatever aren't delivered intranavally, moron), and I have zero sympathy for them. But I frankly have even less sympathy for their dumbass baby mamas grossing everyone out with her chiseled abs of steel HGH and her inordinately offensive "CLEMENS" bikini top. At least I can see why Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds were motivated to do what was called "getting with the program" when the West Beverly track team did it once on an episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Cheating aside, trying to increase one's professional performance and longevity is an honorable ambition, but there's no honor in what Debbie Clemens forced us to endure. She is not a sexy lady and has no place with Marisa Miller and the other hot models that usually populate the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition (I say usually because they put Beyonce's busted ass in an even more busted hooker House of Dereon bathing suit on the cover last year). Debbie would have been better off staying home, designing revolting heart- and butterfly-themed purses, and ferrying her little flock of Strikeouts to their various Little League activities rather than posing for stunningly unappealing bikini photographs in a magazine that is designed for masturbation. The fact that she cheated to do it just renders the actions of Debbie Clemens that much more vile and despicable. What a bitch. We hates.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, media whores, sluts, sportsmen
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Guys are fucking assholes AKA my quest for redemption
When I have boy problems--especially ones that are relatively insignificant but make me act and subsequently feel like a complete and total fool--I have a variety of coping mechanisms, including drinking, porn, Lord of the Rings, pepperoni pizza, and lesbian sex. Sadly, I am hung over, not hungry, not in the mood for porn or epic battles, and I forgot to pick up a hot lesbian (since there weren't any around) last night when I was squiring the typically lame grad school recruits about Nieuw Amsterdam.
So to distract myself from my boy troubles, I just Googled my thoughts to see if the internets could provide some pearl of wisdom that would turn my frown upside down and get my Razzification back on track: "guys are fucking assholes." Maybe I would stumble upon some smart, hot, funny, kick-ass bitch's blog that ranted about how some dumb guy made her feel bad by reiterating his post-coital sentiments of ignorant disdain for her, and that in turn compelled her to demonstrate her abysmal lack of maturity by spilling a drink on his button-down, calling him a fucking asshole, making the world's lamest threat at involving Photoshop and Republican politicians, apologizing, taking back that apology, calling him an asshole again, leaving the bar with another girl only to realize she left her keys there, and returning in humiliation, in turn feeling (deservedly so) like a total idiot douchebag...until she remembered that she's still a smart, hot, funny, kick-ass bitch and it will take more than embarrassing herself in front of a dumb, mean, fucking asshole guy to render her otherwise.
Maybe reading such a blog would in turn put the spring back in my step after experiencing a similar disastrous scenario. A totally similar disastrous scenario. Basically, I wanted to know why this dude I banged a few months ago had ceased being friendly with me as he had been before we became Biblically acquainted. I am not trying to be his girlfriend, but I didn't understand why just having regular-old drunk sex had caused such awkwardness between us. I mean, I have drunk sex with my random friends all the time and it's not a big deal. Judging by his current girlfriend he doesn't usually fuck with bitches rocking personalities like mine, and I just wanted him to know that I wanted things to be okay with us. He did not share this sentiment. Instead he did this infuriating, arrogant country-boy "aw shucks and by 'shucks' I mean 'fuck you'" shrug thing that reminds me of George W. Bush, said he didn't want to talk about it EVER, he preferred to ignore me, and he doesn't care if that hurts my feelings. In other words, fuck you, Razzy. You're a dumb whore and not important enough for me to even say so directly. I can handle a lot of things: hatred, anger, disapproval, judgment, and other forms of negative opinion about myself. One thing I don't handle well, however, is someone announcing that I'm not even worthy of opinion and thus fit only to be ignored. I responded by getting in touch with my inner drunk eleven-year-old, threw a semi-tantrum, semi-Smith girl processing session, and thus cemented my self-humiliation. Actually, the one time I got drunk when I was eleven (I was an altar girl and I thought it would be a sin to pour the leftover consecrated communion wine down the drain, so I pounded it), I was way more mature: I just staggered into the coffee hour after mass and demanded jovially that my mother procure me a donut. As a result, it would make me feel better about myself if I could take some cues from an account of some other admittedly flawed but ultimately admirable bitch taking responsibility for her own ill-advised and completely idiotic drama-bringing and kicking the situation in the ass with her own inherent awesomeness. At the very least, abusing men for being dickheads always mitigates the sting of getting straight-up scorned.
Unfortunately, potential positive Razzy female role models were not to be had with a Google search for "guys are fucking assholes." The first link I clicked led me to a message board where someone responded to a posting opinion "you guys are fucking assholes" with "oh. and go root for the browns, you fucking douche bag." I realized I had stumbled into a forum for STEELERS FANS! If there's one thing that's not going to make me feel better about getting denied hard and then humiliating myself, it's reading the lolcat rantings of a bunch of Stealers fans crying into their Terrible Towels about how the officials screwed them in the AFC Divisional playoff game against Jacksonville. For one thing, there's no good that can come out of me posting something like "Karma's a bitch, ain't it, Super Bowl XL champions?" on a Steelers fan board in response to complaints about unfair penalty calls. It also only serves to remind me of my own woes, because I once watched a Jags game at a bar with this dude.
So I went back to my search hits for "guys are fucking assholes" in hopes that I'd land somewhere better than Steelers Country. I clicked on the next link. This was even worse...I ended up in a MORRISSEY FAN FORUM! I like Morrissey, but his music is definitely not what I need to be listening to right now in order to feel better about this situation. Yeah, I know Morrissey can be funny sometimes, but his witticisms are usually in the context of songs that are otherwise about feeling awkward, self-loathing, humiliated, rejected, disillusioned, and miserable. I don't need to be focusing on my inadequacies right now any more than I already am reading a bunch of hipster fucktards dishing on lyrics about bitches who are nobody's nothing. Besides, Morrissey fans are almost as obnoxious as Steelers fans. They're like elitist Steelers fans who think their taste and intellect are utterly beyond reproach. My friend Morrissey'sHair hung out with a bunch of Morrissey fans from MySpace or something once in Seattle, and I expect that pretentious, faux-cosmopolitan Seattle-dwelling Morrissey fans are probably the most insufferable of the entire lot. They're the Yankees of Morrissey fans. Truly, all Morrissey'sHair ever got out of that was a cougar stalking him and probably a lot of condescending discussion about whatever Anglophilic pseudo-intellectual topics Morrissey fans gather to discuss. (No offense to Morrissey'sHair...he rocks the look but is an exception to the rule regarding douchebaggery of the average Morrissey fan).
Sure enough, this page came up when some Morrissey fan uses the phrase "you guys fucking suck" to begin a thread excoriating other Morrissey fans about their outrage involving ticket refunds for some canceled show. A lengthy tirade about the lack of gratitude shown by these critical, bitchy, ticketless Morrissey fans included gems such as the following:
Morrissey isn't a charity, you don't give him 'donations', you are buying things you want for yourself. And it's not his fault if you went out and bought plane tickets or booked time off work, that was your decision and your responsibility, you knew there were risks involved, and not just because it's Morrissey, these things can happen to anyone. Grow up and stop trying to blame other people for everything that goes wrong in your life. You gambled and you lost, accept the responsibility and just fucking deal with it. You could have bought flexible tickets, but you decided to take a risk to save some money - completely understandable, but in this case it didn't pay off. And that is Morrissey's fault? Ridiculous.
I couldn't even get through most of the asinine bitching that precipitated this tirade. On the bright side, this isn't really reminding me of being depressed or feeling like an asshole. However, petty squabbling between Morrissey's fans about showing proper gratitude to their idol isn't perking me up, either. So on to the next link.
Upon clicking it, I smacked myself in the forehead for not considered some of the possibilities that might result on the internets for searches involving the words "guys", "fucking", and "assholes." Yep, I wound up on a site called "edengay.com" where I found myself staring down a variety of free photo galleries with names like "hardcore anal action" and "College Guys Sucking Cock." I thought most of the material was actually pretty tame for gay porn. Nonetheless, watching alleged "frat boys" and "english lads" buttfucking each other wasn't going to lift my flagging spirits. I was starting to think that maybe the internets weren't going to pay off in terms of providing me with a compass for my social and emotional recovery from Hurricane Idiot Razzy.
This was verified when I then found sites not worth spending time at. There was some kind of message board for the "underground literary community" debating the contributions of British zine writers to the canon, some morons arguing on the Deftones' band forum about the superiority of various Heart songs and whether or not "These Dreams" was worthy of discussion since it's not "classic 70s Heart", some Australian teenager complaining on her Livejournal page about her boyfriend being unsympathetic toward her parents' grounding her, somebody who hates Jared Padalecki and everything about the CW's ad campaign for last season of "Supernatural," and some tech geek complaining about how some IT company in Cork, Ireland is staffed exclusively with "fucking assholes." There was a hilarious Craigslist rant in which a dude laments how "because some of you fucking assholes couldn't keep a good thing to yourselves, your big ass pie holes have turned CL into an adult movie arcade!!!! You know, the one where you pretend you're 'browsing' for 3 hours when in fact you're waiting for that 'hit or miss' cocksucker to show up! AND when one finally does, you jostle into line with a bunch of other 'horny' guys with their wangs out!!! " swinger problems like "The T4M section was exotic, mysterious, and filled with hot and sexy gurls like Amaya begging for cocks and some booze. Now, guys fight over the chance to rump wrangle grandpa wearing a wig!" and "Couples in MW4M were abundant. Meet at a bar, pork the wife and blow your load on the hubby, bada bing..bada boom! Now, couples are holding fucking interviews and looking over your tax returns!!!!" are now prevalent in the Craigslist casual encounters community.
However, none of this made me feel genuinely better. Nothing was providing me with that spark of wisdom I needed to mentally push myself back into a state of high-level Razzification, where the world is in awe of me, I'm smoting everyone's ruin on the mountainside, and the general consensus is that I rule and am a badass, and not in my current state, where I'm hung over and depressed and wearing nothing but a pair of socks with Pugs on them. Therefore, I was about to give up altogether and resign myself to the depressing fate of going to lab, when I found what I was looking for in the most unexpected place: a website called Destructoid for "the hardcore video gaming community."
I certainly did not expect a bunch of masturbating shut-ins who spend their days blogging about Halo 3 or whatever the hell video game types cover to provide me inspiration. However, they were featuring a rant from some other gamer blog about being "burned by the dickery that is AOL Joystiq." I have no idea what AOL Joystiq is, but it has a stupid name, and I'm against it already. This gamer posted a quote from Team America: World Police relating to whatever the problem is with AOL Joystiq, and it's EXACTLY what I needed to hear.
See, there's three kinds of people: dicks, pussies, and assholes. Pussies (other video game sites) think everyone can get along, and dicks (Dtoid and Jaffe) just want to fuck all the time without thinking it through. But then you got your assholes (AOL Joystiq), Chuck. And all the assholes want us to shit all over everything! So, pussies may get mad at dicks once in a while, because pussies get fucked by dicks. But dicks also fuck assholes, Chuck. And if they didn't fuck the assholes, you know what you'd get? You'd get your dick and your pussy all covered in shit!
THANK YOU, Video Game nerds, for your ability to apply the wisdom of Matt and Trey to your situation with AOL Joystiq and thus my analogous situation with this mean-spirited former paramour of mine and my consequential inability to deal. This all boils down to dicks, pussies, and assholes. I was being a pussy, and as a result I got shit on by an asshole. What I need to do is get back to the business of being a dick, which is exactly what I was born to be. I need to get back to fucking assholes and righting things in the world.
So thanks to the sagacious analysis of Destructoid, a site I anticipate I will never have cause to visit again, for reminding me that I can search the internets until I see every last worthless MySpace blog or LiveJournal page, and I will never find another bitch to make like me and tell me what I already know: I fucked up, I looked like a fucking tool, and it's time to move on and reclaim my dickishness, because I am shameless and proud and more than capable of shelving my bratty, irrational, oh-boo-hoo-my-feelings-are-hurt loserly self-pity. I am still Razzy, and much like R. Kelly, there is only one me. No amount of Googling for "guys are fucking assholes" or "I fucked up big-time" or "I hate feeling like an idiot and knowing that I WAS an idiot" is going to yield a blog better or more inspiring for me than what I just figured out through a lot of roundabout internet distraction.
I had to conquer Steelers fans, Morrissey fans, gay porn, and Craigslist swinger rants only to find the hardcore video gaming nerd community guarding the Holy Grail I sought: I already know I am a badass, and I need to quit being a pussy about screwing up insignificant relationships and feeling bad about myself and go back to being a badass. It's time to make like Bill Belichick and say something taciturn and supremely dickish like "we're moving on to the Chargers next week" or "that was a hard-fought game," and go back to plotting my world domination. I am fucking Razzy, goddammit. I AM FUCKING AWESOME! I might fuck up sometimes. But I'm also a hot blonde with pretty eyes and a fine rack, I'm smart, I'm sickeningly talented, I have two awesome dogs, I give great head, I am funny, I have a large vocabulary, I live an exciting and unique life, I am loved by wonderful people, I am often described with impressive adjectives like "singular", "hilarious", "ridiculous", and "intimidating", and if I can shake this particularly brutal scotch and Jaeger hangover, I have a date with a hot, smart guy who actually seems to like me tonight. Why am I sitting around in bed blogging about what a fuckup I am and feeling sorry for myself? I RULE!
So, thanks for your patience with this Smith girl whiny, processy blog posting. As of now-thirty, I'm back to being a dick. Assholes of the world, consider yourselves on notice.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, contrition, for serious people, grad school bullshit, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification, sex, sluts
Friday, February 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: wild turkeys in St. Nicholas Park
DOB: ???
Occupation: waddling around, Pug-ilism
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: This morning as I was walking the dogs in the park across the street from my apartment, I was spending most of my time and attention throwing sticks for Caesar as usual. Chingy! usually just wanders around pissing on stuff, so I generally devote my attention to ensuring that Caesar gets exercised properly.
However, today I was distracted from my stick-throwing by something very unusual: a loud flapping noise coupled with the sound of enraged gobbling. I turned around to see Chingy!, his little snaggle teeth bared, facing off with a pair of wild turkeys. Why there are wild turkeys running around in St. Nicholas Park in the middle of Harlem, I have no idea, but they were not fans of Chingy!. These turkeys were strutting around, puffing up their feathers, and finally flapped away angrily. I didn't realize that wild turkeys can fly--or at least flap around in the air for short distances--but I got to see a demonstration proving that they indeed can as they tried to get the fuck away from Chingy! as he put on a hilarious show of intimidation tactics. I have to give the turkeys props for tolerating his standoffish, completely ridiculous bullshit as long as they did.
CHONGAY CHONG, wild turkeys!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style, sexy delicious animals
Daily Douchebag: Joanne Raine
DOB: 1989
Occupation: idiot teenager
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Darlington, United Kingdom
Douchebaggery: Like many teenagers, Joanne thought her relationship with her boyfriend was going to last forever. Therefore, she decided to drop 80 pounds sterling on a tattoo to commemorate her dedication to their legendary love affair. She decided on what she thought were Chinese characters that spelled her boyfriend's nickname, Roo.
As always occurs, the tattoo symbolizing their burning love was more permanent than the relationship. Joanne has since dumped Roo, and a fateful trip to her local City Wok informed her that her tattoo actually spells "supermarket." I've always thought that if I were a tattoo artist, my number one order of business would be learning how to spell "douchebag" in Chinese characters, so that I could tattoo that on every person requesting some dumb sentiment in Chinese. I guess at least one tattoo artist somewhere in England had this same idea, except with "supermarket" instead. I would have inked her with characters meaning "prat" or "wanker" or some other sufficiently British term for "asshole" or "douchebag," but whatever. I guess "supermarket" is still a pretty lame statement to be making with your body ink. On the bright side, at least Joanne's dumb ass isn't stuck with an indelible rendering of her ex-boyfriend's name on her stomach.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Gimme Mora
YES! I just read the news that the Seattle Seahawks have announced that this hot piece will be coaching the Hawks once the Walrus retires after next season.
While I'll definitely miss seeing Holmgren's jowly scowls on our sidelines, I can't think of anyone better to replace him that the peerless Jim Mora, Jr. Mora is currently our defensive coordinator, and prior to that he was head coach of the Atlanta Falcons. He would have done better in Atlanta except Michael Vick was an unmanageable, overrated tool more interested in dogfighting than running a consistent or effective offense. Clearly, Jim Mora will do better in Seattle.
He grew up in Bellevue, and went to U-Dub, and has seemed for awhile now like Mike Holmgren's heir apparent. I couldn't be happier that the Seahawks have offered him a contract so far ahead of time so the coaching transition will be seamless. I also expect a great deal of entertainment from him. In case you are unaware of his lineage, Jim Mora, Jr. is the son of Jim Mora, Sr., who may be the most entertaining former head coach in NFL history.
Constantly frustrated by the incompetence of those playing for him, Jim Mora, Sr. provided some of the greatest post-game press conferences of all time. These usually got him fired as head coach of both the Colts and the Saints (as did his abysmal record with both those teams), but they were worth every last moment. I could watch his infamous "PLAYOFFS?!" rant over and over again. Just hearing "I don't care WHO you play..." immediately lifts my spirits and puts a smile on my face.
Although he hasn't done anything quite as notorious as that, Jim Mora, Jr. has shown a few brilliant flashes of rage that remind me that somewhere under that cool exterior he has his father's legendary temper. I predict some good times in terms of future Seahawks post-game press conferences, because as much as I love them, if there's anything the Seahawks provide ample source material for it's reasons for their head coach to be frustrated and angry.
Jim Mora is also not bad looking. Along with Mike Tomlin (who I hate and despise forever on account of his coaching the loathsome Shitsburgh Stealers) and Jack Del Rio (who has really grown on me ever since he started rocking his black leather Jags jacket), Jim Mora, Jr. is probably one of the hottest coaches in the NFL. There is no question I would hit that even if he weren't on the Seahawks coaching staff. Good show, Seahawks. I expect our team to run the NFC West for years to come.
While I'll definitely miss seeing Holmgren's jowly scowls on our sidelines, I can't think of anyone better to replace him that the peerless Jim Mora, Jr. Mora is currently our defensive coordinator, and prior to that he was head coach of the Atlanta Falcons. He would have done better in Atlanta except Michael Vick was an unmanageable, overrated tool more interested in dogfighting than running a consistent or effective offense. Clearly, Jim Mora will do better in Seattle.
He grew up in Bellevue, and went to U-Dub, and has seemed for awhile now like Mike Holmgren's heir apparent. I couldn't be happier that the Seahawks have offered him a contract so far ahead of time so the coaching transition will be seamless. I also expect a great deal of entertainment from him. In case you are unaware of his lineage, Jim Mora, Jr. is the son of Jim Mora, Sr., who may be the most entertaining former head coach in NFL history.
Although he hasn't done anything quite as notorious as that, Jim Mora, Jr. has shown a few brilliant flashes of rage that remind me that somewhere under that cool exterior he has his father's legendary temper. I predict some good times in terms of future Seahawks post-game press conferences, because as much as I love them, if there's anything the Seahawks provide ample source material for it's reasons for their head coach to be frustrated and angry.
Jim Mora is also not bad looking. Along with Mike Tomlin (who I hate and despise forever on account of his coaching the loathsome Shitsburgh Stealers) and Jack Del Rio (who has really grown on me ever since he started rocking his black leather Jags jacket), Jim Mora, Jr. is probably one of the hottest coaches in the NFL. There is no question I would hit that even if he weren't on the Seahawks coaching staff. Good show, Seahawks. I expect our team to run the NFC West for years to come.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Seahawks
Daily Douchebag: grad school
I'm not even pissed at Columbia as much as I am pissed about grad school and all the trials and tribulations associated with it. Like with any job, you have to get a performance review, except here in nerd school, we call that a committee meeting. I have one of those today. This consists of me sitting before a triumvirate of accomplished science geeks, one of whom is my PI (mentor/boss). I tell them all about what I've been up to in lab, and they tell me what they like, what they don't, and what I should do next. They also decide when I get to graduate. Therefore, the only things I'm currently thinking about involve rhinoviruses and mice. While my thesis project provides ample inspiration for douchebagging, I doubt that anyone wants to hear about it. So rather than write about boring lab stuff, I figured I'd just better explain that I'm busy with grad school bullshit, and I don't have much time for anything else. Believe me, I would way rather be writing a scathing piece concerning the film Fool's Gold and how it looks like it could give The Notebook, P.S. I Love You, The Lake House, and Love Actually a run for its money in the contest for most detestable, least-Razzified movie ever made, but sometimes you just have other work to do.
Sorry I've been slacking lately, but I really want to graduate so I can get down to the business of making people address me as "Doctor." Like when I call up the cable company to yell at them for fucking up my bill or something, and the sales rep is like "Ms. Razzy" and I say in a really bitchy Heather Locklear tone of voice, "excuse me, but that's DOCTOR Razzy. Make sure you update your records to reflect this." That's going to rule so hard. Therefore, I sometimes have to keep my thoughts on rhinovirus and my committee and not who gets to join the extreme losers who can brag to their friends that they got douchebagged on RAZZY.org, which soon the whole world will not be able to live without. Well, as soon as the whole world hears about it from those of you who read it now, because I'm sure you all talk constantly about how reading RAZZY.org has revolutionized the way you think, resulted in you becoming noticeably smarter, made you more physically admirable and appealing, and generally changed your life for the better. Right? Yeah. It'll happen.
In the meantime, please be patient with me. And I'll address questions concerning the sincerity or depth of my love for John McCain as soon as I get a minute. So stay tuned.
Sorry I've been slacking lately, but I really want to graduate so I can get down to the business of making people address me as "Doctor." Like when I call up the cable company to yell at them for fucking up my bill or something, and the sales rep is like "Ms. Razzy" and I say in a really bitchy Heather Locklear tone of voice, "excuse me, but that's DOCTOR Razzy. Make sure you update your records to reflect this." That's going to rule so hard. Therefore, I sometimes have to keep my thoughts on rhinovirus and my committee and not who gets to join the extreme losers who can brag to their friends that they got douchebagged on RAZZY.org, which soon the whole world will not be able to live without. Well, as soon as the whole world hears about it from those of you who read it now, because I'm sure you all talk constantly about how reading RAZZY.org has revolutionized the way you think, resulted in you becoming noticeably smarter, made you more physically admirable and appealing, and generally changed your life for the better. Right? Yeah. It'll happen.
In the meantime, please be patient with me. And I'll address questions concerning the sincerity or depth of my love for John McCain as soon as I get a minute. So stay tuned.
Labels: contrition, Daily Douchebag, excuses, grad school bullshit, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nick Manning
Aliases: Rick Manning, Dand Lee Strickland
DOB: May 28, 1967
Occupation: Per his website, "worldclass athlete, runway & print model, mainstream actor, porn star." He's also a would-be ringtone tycoon and entrepreneur extraordinaire
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Porn Valley, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Nick Manning is the star of such memorable films as Chronicles of a Pervert, Sick Girls Need Sick Boys, and Bum Plumbers. His trademark is apparently shouting "dropping loads" during the money shot of the film. I don't know if I've ever seen him performing because I tend to tune out unremarkable male porn stars, and frankly, the heads of their penises are more commonly shown in porn than the heads on their shoulders. I'm pretty sure that I would have remembered a guy who shouted, "droppin' loads all over your face...all over the fuckin' room! Eat it up! Manning mayonnaise." (GROSS!) I did see Island Fever which he supposedly was in, but I don't remember this dude shouting about the loads he was droppin' all over Tera Patrick.
I guess Nick Manning's been watching Donny Deutsch, because he seems intent upon improving recognition and expanding his brand. He's gotten into directing and producing cinematic classics like Squirting Showers and Pretty Little Cum Catchers as well as starring in them. He's gotten into merchandising, and sells unappealingly named sex toys such as Nick Manning's Masturstroke Kit and Nick Manning's Body Slam Masturbator. Finally, he's trying to carve out his own niche the lucrative ringtone business.
A Nick Manning fan might wander over to his website and realize that for a paltry $4.99, they too could have a phone that heralds incoming calls or text messages with "droppin' loads all over your cellphone!" I somehow restrained myself from purchasing one of Nick Manning's signature ringtones, if only because I still haven't yet gotten tired of arriving calls announced via a sultry declaration that "it's Britney, bitch!" Also, it's got to be pretty embarrassing to be associated with a phone that interrupts a meeting with a crude ejaculation reference. However, I must commend Nick for going beyond a somewhat creepy, beat-down cut rate Lorenzo Lamas wannabe who gets paid $50 per dropped load. He's clearly taken the master's degree in "human relations" he claims to have from Loyola University and put it to good use. I expect Nick Manning to get the AVN Jenna Jameson Crossover Award for his business acumen, because he's droppin' loads all over the ringtone game. Nick Manning's media empire is going to be a corporate force to reckon with any time now.
Labels: capitalism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, porn, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Cosmo is worthless
I've gone off about this before, but Cosmopolitan may be one of the dumbest magazines ever, and I deeply resent that "women's" magazines like it are so fucking asinine. They're boring and predictable, and give very little in the way of novel, interesting, useful advice. I already know about options for dealing with my period and the time immediately proceeding it, I have never picked up any new or fabulous sex tips from Cosmo, and I don't really care about the latest news in the world of slutty designer heels I can't afford. Cosmo sucks and there's not even a really compelling reason to buy it. I can probably sum up what goes on in any given issue of Cosmo in one sentence: tired old material not worth my $4.29. You should give me your $4.29 instead. I can tell you exactly what this is about based on the cover alone. My retelling will be more temporally economical and probably more entertaining. Take this month's issue, for example:
21 Naughty Sex Tips (Tonight, Treat Him to Some Boundary-Pushing Sex That Good Girls Only Dream Of): 21 variations on the theme of "pick decent sex music, communicate with your partner, and suck dick every once in a while."
5 Things Never to Tell Your Guy: you love him too soon in the relationship, you don't like his mother, you cheated on him, anything about your period, or you were once a man.
Your Va-Jay-Jay (Fascinating New Facts About Your Lovely Lady Parts): the vagina is medically complicated, even confusing even to those of us who have one, and prone to various types of diseases that you should know about.
Why Guys Cheat (Fresh Insight): much like girls, guys cheat for a variety of reasons, with "horniness" coming in strong as the front-runner for reasons why.
Rihanna (Puts those Rumors to Rest): Rumors? What rumors are going around about the pretty but otherwise boring Rihanna? Hopefully there won't be any questions about that "Umbrella" song because I got painfully sick of that piece 6 months ago.
Sex He Has Alone (Where and When/How Often [Yikes!]/His Shocking Go-To Fantasy): Guys masturbate, they do it whenever possible and wherever they can, and they fantasize about women other than their girlfriends sometimes while doing so. Cope.
Women and Danger--The "Nice" Habit That Can Cost You Your Life: make sure you don't pick up any hitchhikers or leave your drink unattended because some guy seems harmless or you feel sorry for him...that was Ted Bundy's modus operandi.
Feel Good Tricks for Totally Blah Days: read celebrity gossip, buy stuff (such as ice cream and/or footwear), get some ass, indulge in a mani/pedi, massage, facial, and/or some other type of spa treatment, and go out drinking with your girlfriends.
Plus! 20 Very Sexy Beauty Trends: some designers paid Cosmo to plug their clothes, so Cosmo took some pictures of random model-type bitches wearing them.
Like I said, boring and predictable. I just saved you $4.29.
21 Naughty Sex Tips (Tonight, Treat Him to Some Boundary-Pushing Sex That Good Girls Only Dream Of): 21 variations on the theme of "pick decent sex music, communicate with your partner, and suck dick every once in a while."
5 Things Never to Tell Your Guy: you love him too soon in the relationship, you don't like his mother, you cheated on him, anything about your period, or you were once a man.
Your Va-Jay-Jay (Fascinating New Facts About Your Lovely Lady Parts): the vagina is medically complicated, even confusing even to those of us who have one, and prone to various types of diseases that you should know about.
Why Guys Cheat (Fresh Insight): much like girls, guys cheat for a variety of reasons, with "horniness" coming in strong as the front-runner for reasons why.
Rihanna (Puts those Rumors to Rest): Rumors? What rumors are going around about the pretty but otherwise boring Rihanna? Hopefully there won't be any questions about that "Umbrella" song because I got painfully sick of that piece 6 months ago.
Sex He Has Alone (Where and When/How Often [Yikes!]/His Shocking Go-To Fantasy): Guys masturbate, they do it whenever possible and wherever they can, and they fantasize about women other than their girlfriends sometimes while doing so. Cope.
Women and Danger--The "Nice" Habit That Can Cost You Your Life: make sure you don't pick up any hitchhikers or leave your drink unattended because some guy seems harmless or you feel sorry for him...that was Ted Bundy's modus operandi.
Feel Good Tricks for Totally Blah Days: read celebrity gossip, buy stuff (such as ice cream and/or footwear), get some ass, indulge in a mani/pedi, massage, facial, and/or some other type of spa treatment, and go out drinking with your girlfriends.
Plus! 20 Very Sexy Beauty Trends: some designers paid Cosmo to plug their clothes, so Cosmo took some pictures of random model-type bitches wearing them.
Like I said, boring and predictable. I just saved you $4.29.
Labels: media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Happy Lent
It's Lent, and I'm giving up blogging. JUST KIDDING. However, that said, I'm really hung over and just woke up, so I'm not coming up with anything good today. I'll be back tomorrow.
Oh yeah, and John McCain rules!
Labels: alcoholism, Razzification
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
By popular demand
Except by "popular" I mean one person requested that I put an anti-Patriots slogan on my tits to commemorate their historic 18-1 season and Super Bowl XLII loss. Besides, it's Mardi Gras, and exposing one's breasts is a time-honored tradition.
Unfortunately, this didn't work out quite as well as the time I wrote pro-Pats slogans on my cans (because I lost a bet, not because I wanted to support the bastardly Patriots), because of a variable I didn't have to contend with when I took those photos over Christmas at my parents' house: CHINGY! As you can see by the splotches, he became very interested in the red lipstick all over my girls and noticed I was taking pictures. Apparently desiring to put the "fat" in "fat Tuesday," he wiggled under my left arm, smearing lipstick everywhere. He currently looks like he has some horrible wound on his side because there is a giant streak of cocksucker red on his fawn fur. Whether he did this just to disrupt my blogging or because he secretly loves the Pats (and as Chingy! is a grade-A fucking asshole, that wouldn't surprise me), I don't know, but anyway. I have to get to lab so I don't have time to redo it. Enjoy the boobs.
CHONGAY CHONG, Patriots losing and Razzy titty shots!
Unfortunately, this didn't work out quite as well as the time I wrote pro-Pats slogans on my cans (because I lost a bet, not because I wanted to support the bastardly Patriots), because of a variable I didn't have to contend with when I took those photos over Christmas at my parents' house: CHINGY! As you can see by the splotches, he became very interested in the red lipstick all over my girls and noticed I was taking pictures. Apparently desiring to put the "fat" in "fat Tuesday," he wiggled under my left arm, smearing lipstick everywhere. He currently looks like he has some horrible wound on his side because there is a giant streak of cocksucker red on his fawn fur. Whether he did this just to disrupt my blogging or because he secretly loves the Pats (and as Chingy! is a grade-A fucking asshole, that wouldn't surprise me), I don't know, but anyway. I have to get to lab so I don't have time to redo it. Enjoy the boobs.
CHONGAY CHONG, Patriots losing and Razzy titty shots!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, fuck the Pats, NFL football, nudity
Daily Douchebag: Natalee Holloway
DOB: October 21, 1986
DOD: May 30, 2005 (probably)
Occupation: dead drunk bitch
Hometown: Clinton, Mississippi
Current residence: unknown, but probably at the bottom of the ocean somewhere
Douchebaggery: Right in time for your Mardi Gras festivities, here comes a cautionary tale about why you shouldn't be a completely stupid drunk bitch. Last night there was nothing on TV so I watched that "20/20" trash where they had Joran Van Der Sloot getting high and talking to some undercover Aruban reporter about the night Natalee Holloway disappeared. Around two years ago, this Natalee bitch's disappearance in Aruba was big news, so if you missed it, you must have been on Oceanic flight 815 or something, because you couldn't turn on cable news without hearing about it. Basically, Natalee was a senior in high school who went to party in Aruba and disappeared. This Joran dude, the son of an Aruban judge, was arrested but then released, and he fled to Holland. He apparently hung out with her before she vanished. They got F-16s to fly around Aruba looking for her (and how a fighter jet makes a good search-and-rescue vehicle, I don't know...according to Top Gun, they're more useful for shooting down Russian MIGs, but I don't want to tell the Dutch navy how to do its job), and never found squat. Basically, Natalee Holloway is dead and gone.
Well, this moron Joran decided to tell his pot-smoking reporter friend all about the night Natalee disappeared, and confirmed what we already knew: Natalee is dead and Joran is a big asshole. He claimed that he did some body shots off Natalee, and then treated her to some shots of 151. Then they took off to have sex, and she didn't want to go to her hotel (because her overbearing mother was there), so they hit the beach. They got it on, and then she proceeded to overdose on one of the many drugs she did (I believe cocaine and ecstasy were both mentioned). Being a gentleman, Joran walked to a nearby pay phone so as not to make an incriminating call from his cell, hollered at one of his friends with a boat, and hitched a ride home while said friend dumped Natalee's body into the ocean. Man, I bet the Dutch and Aruban girls are lining up to go on a date with Joran. He's a prince.
Although Joran is clearly a douchebag of the highest order, I have a grudge against Natalee, as well. For one thing, I got really sick of hearing her mother whine to Geraldo and Rita Cosby for months about what a good girl her precious daughter was, and how she'd never do something like drink or use drugs or fuck random Dutch nationals while on a party vacation with her friends. For another, Natalee was clearly dumb as a box of rocks. It is never advisable to do a bunch of drugs and 151 shots in a foreign country and go fuck a stranger in a secluded place, especially when the stranger looks like this:
So thanks, Natalee Holloway, for getting your dumb ass all over the news via your exemplary stupidity. If her mother weren't such a ruckus-raising shrew, Natalee should get a damn Darwin award for apparently ignoring all her D.A.R.E. classes and mixing 151 with coke and ecstasy and having the world's shittiest taste in men.
On that note, happy Mardi Gras, everyone! Make sure you drink heavily and show your titties!
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, drugs, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Cole Cosgrove
DOB: ???
Occupation: blogger, copy editor of the south Sound's finest paper, the Tacoma News Tribune
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Tacoma, Washington--City of Destiny
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today I was catching up on my reading concerning what goes on in the beautiful P-N-Dub over at the TNT (that would be the Tacoma News Tribune) website. As usual, not a whole lot is going on. The Pierce County auditor (whose son--on an amusing aside--was best friends with this guy I was boning back in Tacompton and asked if they could run a train on me once...I said no, because he was fat) is leading a campaign for stiffer fines against owning vicious animals in response to several pitbull attacks in Spanaway, and the new Sumner street-sweeping machine led the funeral procession for a recently deceased street sweeper's funeral. I'm sure if I did some digging I could find some news about meth, but otherwise there's not a whole lot going on back in the area where I came up. So I was clicking around tribnet.com and found some blog called "Grit City: You'll Like Tacoma."
I decided to check it out because I already know that I like Tacoma, having gone to school there and lived there for many years, and "Grit City" is certainly an apt description of it. It's a lot more fitting than "America's Most Wired City", which was what Tacoma called itself a few years back because we had more internet wiring than anywhere else or something. Anyway, I was initially annoyed by the "Grit City" blog because I watched the dumb Super Bowl rap video that some tool with nothing better to do made (and which is NOT the "hottest thing outta Tacoma since Chihuly's glass left the furnace"...that would be me.) People making up stupid raps about football--especially while wearing a seriously outdated Darryl Jackson Seahawks road jersey--are not my cup of scotch. But I scrolled on through the blog to the next posting.
Apparently, some dude in Yakima restored a vintage sign touting Yakima as "the Palm Springs of Washington."
Anyway, the author Cole Cosgrove then wondered what Tacoma would compare itself to if it had a similar sign. He came up with the best analogy ever:
I have to give Cole Cosgrove props for pointing this out. Plus, if his thumbnail picture on the blog is any indication, he's kind of a hot piece, by Tacoma standards anyway. Unfortunately, his biography says he's married. Too bad, because with his cheerful good looks and razor-sharp insight, he'd have bitches at the West End or Hank's Tavern swooning and begging him to buy them a round or two of Rainiers. And you know he drinks Vitamin R like any upstanding "gritizen" because elsewhere on the Grit City blog I found this picture of him in his finest T-town regalia:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, P-N-Dub
Monday, February 04, 2008
To FAS or not to FAS?
Today I received an email from BigBagel and was most dismayed. Buoyed by his team's glorious triumph in the Super Bowl last night, he wants to cease and desist with using a demeaning moniker for Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning that he himself came up with (probably).
Furthermore, BigBagel created a monster when he started calling Eli "FAS." I was getting text messages last night from HotLawyer being like "fuck yeah, fas!," and HotLawyer has never even met BigBagel. At the Super Bowl party I was at, a bunch of grad students who have also mostly never met BigBagel were also shouting words of encouragement like, "Let's go, FAS! Come on, FAS!" FAS is a nickname that makes so much sense that once people hear it, they never want to call Eli anything else ever again. I'm certainly not giving up a name that good for "Ice Water." Maybe "Bud Ice" or "Smirnoff Ice," but not "Ice Water."
Anyway, though, although I disagree with BigBagel's position, I figured that it would be only fair to pose this question for public debate. So please weigh in on the comments page. Should FAS Manning be a glorious denigrating nickname of the past and be replaced with the slightly more impressive "Ice Water," or should it forever be used to describe young Eli Manning? Fetal alcohol or ice water? Holler back.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)In short, NO! He's still a damn Manning, and I hate all of them. Archie, Peyton, Eli...it doesn't matter. I loathe the Mannings and every last one of their tick-ridden, poorly enunciating, jaw-lolling country kin. I hate that I'm going to be tormented by inordinate MasterCard and DirecTV commercials featuring Eli as well as his annoying big brother. I hate the way Eli is going to be elevated in fantasy draft rankings next year and how I'm going to be listening to all the New York sports pundits crowing about his greatness for months to come. FAS had a good end to his season, but that doesn't mean he's covered from the serious case of slack-jawed yokelism he's likely had since birth. Fetal alcohol syndrome is a permanent condition. Not even Super Bowl MVP status can cure a bad case of FAS.
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@somefellowshiporsomethinginthedirrty.com)
Subject: an entreaty
It is time to put to bed the nickname FAS Manning. Instead, he is, as Plaxico Burress put it, Ice Water. Or, for short, I.W.
I do not know whether or not I was clever enough or not to invent the nickname FAS. It mighta happened in some Mississippi bar with some Ole Miss fan tellin' jokes over over the 15th beer before driving home in one of the few states where it takes 3 DUIs before it's a felony. Or, it mighta been some divine inspiration because I will freely acknowledge that Eli is a mouth breather.
But, Super Bowl MVPs are defined solely by that accomplishment until they die, unless they retire, go to med school and cure cancer. Otherwise, they will always, always be Super Bowl MVPs. Case in point: Ray Lewis. How often after he won the Super Bowl MVP did you hear him referred to as an "alleged murderer who happened to win the MVP"? Never, he was just a SBMVP. He still is simply a SBMVP. His team sucks. He's psychotic and overbearing. He'll never win another. He's got a bloated contract and now that he's off the roids and rage juice, he's kinda relatively lackadaisical. And he probably killed someone with a knife at the Super Bowl in Atlanta in 1999 before going on to whip my beloved Giants ass' the next year in the SB. But none of that matters, cause Ray Lewis was a well-deserving SBMVP. And so was Eli.
Now, I will fully admit that I was down on Eli. Besides Olivia Manning, who wasn't? He stunk, made dumb decisions and fell down whenever a D-lineman so much as burped at him. It didn't help that he rarely was able to conjure up more than a, "Oh gee, that was awful, huh?" after doing something stupid on the field. His brother, what's his name? Oh yeah, Peyton "douchebag" Manning was always very articulate, playful. Peyton seemed to be a real engaging guy with an otherworldly ability, whereas you wondered often if Eli was capable of lacing up his own cleats.
But I was made a believer in the Dallas game, the Divisional Championship this year, at the end of the first half. Down 14-7, Giants get the ball with about one minute to go. The Cowboys, America's team starting America's quarterback dating America's favorite trashy pop star in America's favorite stadium, had the momentum. But Eli was cool. He marched them right up the field like he'd been doing it all day and scored. Tied at the half. Cowboys momentum completely deflated. Ice Water.
How about being down by 4 with about two minutes to go in the MOTHERFUCKING SUPER BOWL against what many were calling one of the greatest teams of all time? What did he do? He won. Straight up. No controversial ending. No flashy show. He didn't taunt the Patriots, talk shit, act a fool, throw a trick play in. (Ahem, Yoko Romo and Philip "Ah'm frum Gnawrth Cahrowleyenah nd ah cayun play quortorback" Rivers.) He didn't throw amazing passes, dazzle with his athletic ability or rocket arm, or put on a show. He just won. End of story. Ice Water.
I acknowledge that there is a chance that some of the FAS may contribute to his Ice Water-iness. I mean, maybe he's too dumb to know the gravity of some of the incredible situations he's able to dig himself out of. Yet he keeps doing it, keeps finding a way. And he also keeps not making mistakes. I'm sorry Ang, but as skilled a quarterback as Matt Hasselback might be, he's never performed to the level Ice Water did for for the last 6 weeks. There's a whole heaping helping of supposedly "brilliant" quarterbacks who haven't come anywhere near putting on the consistent performance of Ice Water at the end of this season.
Just keep saying it: Ice Water. Ice Water. It works, right?
Furthermore, BigBagel created a monster when he started calling Eli "FAS." I was getting text messages last night from HotLawyer being like "fuck yeah, fas!," and HotLawyer has never even met BigBagel. At the Super Bowl party I was at, a bunch of grad students who have also mostly never met BigBagel were also shouting words of encouragement like, "Let's go, FAS! Come on, FAS!" FAS is a nickname that makes so much sense that once people hear it, they never want to call Eli anything else ever again. I'm certainly not giving up a name that good for "Ice Water." Maybe "Bud Ice" or "Smirnoff Ice," but not "Ice Water."
Anyway, though, although I disagree with BigBagel's position, I figured that it would be only fair to pose this question for public debate. So please weigh in on the comments page. Should FAS Manning be a glorious denigrating nickname of the past and be replaced with the slightly more impressive "Ice Water," or should it forever be used to describe young Eli Manning? Fetal alcohol or ice water? Holler back.
Labels: BigBagel, correspondence, fuck the Mannings, NFL football
The real Super Bowl XLII MVP
So Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning may have been tapped as Super Bowl MVP, but I think we all know who the REAL star of that game was:
YES! Mike Carey, the greatest head referree in the National Football League and all-around hot piece of perfectly groomed ass, called this game exactly as I predicted: with crisp, precisely executed signals and no bullshit! This isn't like the disaster mitigated by Bill Leavy on February 6, 2006 otherwise known as Super Bowl XL. I couldn't find one questionable call in the entire game. Mike Carey even made them play the last second, when even Bill Belichick stormed off grouchily at the end of the game.
During the game, every time there was something sketchy going on, I reassured everyone, "Don't worry, Mike Carey will straighten this out." Sure enough, he did every time, with no fanfare and no fucking around and a beautifully demonstrated official gesture. I could watch him announce false start penalties all day; that call in particular is a thing of beauty. He somehow manages to stop his forearm roll exactly when his arms are parallel to one another after one solitary rotation. Sublime.
Also, Mike Carey broke ground by not only providing the finest, most indisputably perfect officiating in Super Bowl history, but by being the first black referee to ever preside over the championship game. There could be no better way to kick off Black History Month than with a man blazing trails and being the finest in the world at his job in the biggest American television event of the year. Hats off to Mike Carey! Although I hope Mike Carey keeps his hat on, because he's bald. Not that I have a problem with bald guys (I don't at all--in fact, a guy being comfortable with his baldness is hot and sexy). It's just weird seeing his chrome dome when he's not wearing his regulation NFL zebra stripes and matching cap.
Mike Carey: a super referee for a truly Super Bowl. Nobody better could have been trusted to oversee the dispensing of the Lombardi Trophy. After Robert Sylvester Kelly, he is the world's second greatest.
During the game, every time there was something sketchy going on, I reassured everyone, "Don't worry, Mike Carey will straighten this out." Sure enough, he did every time, with no fanfare and no fucking around and a beautifully demonstrated official gesture. I could watch him announce false start penalties all day; that call in particular is a thing of beauty. He somehow manages to stop his forearm roll exactly when his arms are parallel to one another after one solitary rotation. Sublime.
Also, Mike Carey broke ground by not only providing the finest, most indisputably perfect officiating in Super Bowl history, but by being the first black referee to ever preside over the championship game. There could be no better way to kick off Black History Month than with a man blazing trails and being the finest in the world at his job in the biggest American television event of the year. Hats off to Mike Carey! Although I hope Mike Carey keeps his hat on, because he's bald. Not that I have a problem with bald guys (I don't at all--in fact, a guy being comfortable with his baldness is hot and sexy). It's just weird seeing his chrome dome when he's not wearing his regulation NFL zebra stripes and matching cap.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the New York Giants
DOB: 1925
Occupation: Super Bowl champions
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: East Rutherford, New Jersey
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Usually, I reserve a special place for the Giants as the butt of many jokes about the NFL, and particularly for their quarterback, Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning. FAS Manning's mouth-breathing appearance of country-fried stupidity and frequent bouts of turnover-yielding inconsistency provide a virtually limitless supply of fodder for mockery.
However, that has all changed now after yesterday's Super Bowl. Apart from his constant expression of slack-jawed bemusement, I could find nothing substantial about FAS to criticize. In the last minute of the game, FAS broke a tackle for probably the first time in his life only to throw what turned out to be a truly spectacular catch by David Tyree. Then he threw a touchdown to the hotness that is my former fantasy wide receiver Plaxico Burress to win the game. Plax started crying to Terry Bradshaw after the game, and I was deeply moved. I've now decided that my firstborn will be named Plaxico Mack Strong D'Brickashaw Rasmussen (I know it's probably bad to have a kid named after a Giant and a Jet, but I've been hot for D'Brickashaw Ferguson since he came on the scene with his awesome name. Also, I can't omit Mack Strong because he's the greatest fullback in NFL history, and that is no joke...I wept bitter tears when he retired). Any subsequent children I bear will be named after the Giants' defensive line, because they did a hell of a job, too. Granted, my kids will probably be annoyed when their friends make fun of them for being named things like Tuck Strahan Rasmussen and Kawika Alford Rasmussen, but that's their problem. They should be more worried about the fact that they all have my last name because they're undoubtedly all going to be bastards of dubious paternity.
This was the greatest Super Bowl in a long time, and the Giants deserved to win it. They all showed up to play. This win was worth it, if not just to see the hateful Hatriots lose, but to see FAS Manning's inarticulate primal victory bawl juxtaposed with his championship-t-shirt-over-pads post-game interview costume. I won't talk shit about the Giants anymore. At least, not until next season when I'll probably get saddled with FAS as my fantasy quarterback and get dangerously enraged with every week as he takes me farther from my dream of doing a Patriots-like dynasty in the Columbia Ballers Fantasy League. Or, alternatively, if I am lucky enough not to have FAS leading Tha Razzies' offense, I'll just hate all the commercials starring FAS that we'll probably be inundated with. Last night on Sportscenter, one of the dudes said, "You know what's next for Eli? CUT. THAT. MEAT! CUT. THAT. MEAT!" I think that's an unfortunately accurate prediction, and I'm already shuddering with the annoyance I'll experience once FAS starts getting as much commercial airplay as his obnoxious big brother Peyton.
Oh well. At least I'll savor the Giants' glorious victory and the Patriots' shameful defeat for a few sweet months before the tide of my favor turns in eight months when football season begins anew. Yay, Giants!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fuck the Mannings, fuck the Pats, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football
Daily Douchebag: the New England Patriots yet AGAIN
DOD: February 3, 2008
Occupation: failing to achieve perfection
Hometown: Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: wherever the hell they go to lick their wounds in the offseason
Douchebaggery: Anyone in New York who watched the Super Bowl yesterday, excepting those few New England transplants who are probably pouting somewhere (and yes, I'm talking about you, Benzo, Neo, Miss Corbutt's boyfriend, hot guys at P.D. O'Hurley's who watched the Steelers-Jags game with me a month or so ago, and Andy Gray), is celebrating the demise of the perfect team. Ha. Ha! HA!!!! The Patriots lost! The Patriots lost!
Last Friday, when I douchebagged the Patriots in preparation for the Super Bowl and hoped that their book 19-0: The Historic Championship Season of New England's Unbeatable Patriots would jinx them as badly as it should. Some cranky Pats fan left this anonymous comment:
And what you fail to mention is how the Giants had a book like that too.Well, some people do like bitches, as evidenced by two things: 1. I have friends and 2. the Patriots have fans. Actually, I didn't realize the Giants also tried to put a book like that on Amazon for pre-ordering, or I would have mentioned it. We take fact-checking very seriously here at RAZZY.org ("fact checking"=drinking beer and popping off at the mouth), and someone's head is going to roll for this. You hear me, Google? How dare you fail to turn up any sports blogs mentioning this when I searched for "cocky sons-a-bitches Super Bowl preparation"? Yes, it may have been an oversight that I didn't criticize the Giants for also releasing a pre-game jinx book, but I imagine at least the Giants book didn't have such a disgustingly obnoxious title. In any event, YOU grow up, Pats fans! Your team's attempts at perfection were valiant (and insufferably arrogant, and involved cheating) but ultimately doomed in the one must-win game of the season. 18-1: The Historic AFC Championship Season of New England's Ultimately Beatable Super Bowl-Losing Patriots doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
Grow up, princess. No one likes a bitch.
Granted, I would buy that book, only to read the chapter at the end where the Pats finally lose and enjoy all the pictures of Tom Brady getting sacked five times and looking increasingly dejected each time as he hauled his precious male model ass off the turf, or Bill Belichick, being the perennial exemplar of class and sportsmanship by walking off the field with time still on the clock. To Belichick's credit, at least he busted out a brand new cut-off sleeve sweatshirt (with Arizona-length short sleeves and a festive red color as opposed to the usual dirty gray, three-quarter-length sleeves he rocks at Foxborough) for the occasion. This uncharacteristically bright homeless guy take on NFL team gear made it that much more noticeable when his dour, pouty ass decided to make a premature exit in the twilight of the game.
I don't think I could have borne the stress of every Boston sports fan in the world crowing about their precious perfect season had the Patriots won, so this was the greatest Super Bowl ever in my book. Usually, I think Super Bowls are either boring (the "Pirate Bowl", last year's game in which Rex Grossman capitulated before the game even started, and the game where Janet Jackson's "wardrobe malfunction" was the most exciting part) or disgraceful (Super Bowl XXXIV where the Titans lost to the Rams by the one agonizing yard that Kevin Dyson's arm couldn't stretch and Super Bowl XL in which the Seahawks were robbed by Bill Leavy's biased and incompetent officiating). The Patriots have nothing to brag about except being three-time douchebags on RAZZY.org this season, and all is right in the world. YES!
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Pats, I LOVE IT, NFL football
Friday, February 01, 2008
La Fea Mafia
I love convicted justice obstructor/perjurer and cunnilingus aficionado Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones dearly for her contributions to the canon of cutting-edge feminist thought. I have been truly inspired by her tales about going from making her intro getting fucked in the Pinto to being skin-deep in the Lexus jeep, her assertions about the superiority of her self-proclaimed "designer pussy" (which apparently comes in "high-class tasting" flavors), keeping her finances and sex life independent of one another by refusing to go out shopping spending dudes' C-notes and instead staying at their cribs to provide them deep throat, and her refusal to let a man stick this without licking this. Lil' Kim is an iconic womanly figure and I love the groundbreaking achievements that she has blessed the world with.
However, it seems that Lil' Kim's self-image isn't quite as strong as her song lyrics purport, because I can only assume that abysmally low self-esteem was what drove her to do this to herself:
NOOOOOOOO!!!! She doesn't even look like a real human being anymore. When I first saw this, I thought that Marc Jacobs (who looks more like a wasting Jeff Goldblum every time I see him) had taken a secondhand, beat-down blowup doll to whatever event this was as his date. It appears that Kim's gone back to her and Jenna Jameson's hack surgeon for more facial implants, and if she doesn't quit it with the rhinoplasty she's going to look like a member of the damn Jackson family. Lil' Kim should consider the fact that she has to still use a thick shellac of foundation to look presentable as an indicator that the surgeries are NOT working in the beauty department!
What is Lil' Kim even doing at an event with a fancy designer like Marc Jacobs anyway? While she often makes claims about being into haute couture in her lyrics, she also notes that she makes questionable fashion decisions such as her penchant for "rock(ing) colorful minks" and proceeds to wear the most garish trash imaginable every time I see her. The last time I checked what was on the cover of Italian Vogue, it wasn't purple pasties and giant diamond Queen B necklaces. It's a pity that Michael Kors wasn't at this event so that he could dispense some succinctly bitchy critical advice about her taste. He could probably craft some wickedly hilarious zinger simultaneously referencing the Crypt Keeper, 80s music videos, cheap prom corsages, and mothers of the bride. Lil' Kim needs his help in every way. BADLY. Starting with him changing her clothes and forcing her to sign away her rights to any future elective cosmetic procedures.
Lil' Kim needs to quit with the surgeries now, because she's ruining her entire mystique (in fact, that ship may have already completely sailed). If her face is any indication, her vagina is neither tight nor right, and that is a blow to mankind. For the love of God, Lil' Kim, love yourself enough to steer clear of the scalpel from here on out.
However, it seems that Lil' Kim's self-image isn't quite as strong as her song lyrics purport, because I can only assume that abysmally low self-esteem was what drove her to do this to herself:
What is Lil' Kim even doing at an event with a fancy designer like Marc Jacobs anyway? While she often makes claims about being into haute couture in her lyrics, she also notes that she makes questionable fashion decisions such as her penchant for "rock(ing) colorful minks" and proceeds to wear the most garish trash imaginable every time I see her. The last time I checked what was on the cover of Italian Vogue, it wasn't purple pasties and giant diamond Queen B necklaces. It's a pity that Michael Kors wasn't at this event so that he could dispense some succinctly bitchy critical advice about her taste. He could probably craft some wickedly hilarious zinger simultaneously referencing the Crypt Keeper, 80s music videos, cheap prom corsages, and mothers of the bride. Lil' Kim needs his help in every way. BADLY. Starting with him changing her clothes and forcing her to sign away her rights to any future elective cosmetic procedures.
Lil' Kim needs to quit with the surgeries now, because she's ruining her entire mystique (in fact, that ship may have already completely sailed). If her face is any indication, her vagina is neither tight nor right, and that is a blow to mankind. For the love of God, Lil' Kim, love yourself enough to steer clear of the scalpel from here on out.
Labels: Lil' Kim, plastic surgery, Project Runway, rap, sluts, you're ugly
Daily Douchebag: the New England Patriots...AGAIN
DOB: 1960, but the modern era of the Patriot scourge began in 2000 when Bill Belichick signed on as head coach
Occupation: existing as the most hateworthy team in the history of professional football next to the 2005 Shitsburgh Stealers
Hometown: Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Glendale, Arizona
Douchebaggery: I HATE THE FUCKING PATRIOTS SO GODDAMN MUCH! I really, really, deeply, wholeheartedly LOATHE them. All season I've been channeling as much negative energy in their direction as possible. They continued to dominate. I've douchebagged them on my blog. They kept winning. I've talked all sorts of smack to every Pats fan that has crossed my path. They won and bragged about it. I made an ill-advised wager on the Patriots-Dolphins game in week 16 that resulted in my public humiliation. Ultimately I threw a few Hail Marys of my own in the form of prayers to Jesus, Mary, God the Father, the Holy Spirit, and every saint I could think of to intervene and teach them some humility. The Pats had a perfect season. Not even Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, could hook a bitch up with a solitary Pats loss. And now those assholes are going to the Super Bowl.
I hate the insufferably obnoxious Patriots fans, who are right up there with Yankees fans for me. I hate everyone affiliated with the team in any way. I hate Bill Belichick's unethical, taciturn, slovenly ass. I hate Tom Brady, I hate Randy Moss, I hate Tedy Bruschi, I hate Stephen Gostkowski, I hate Mike Vrabel, I hate Rodney Harrison, and I even hate Junior Seau! I hate Bob Kraft and I hate Scott Pioli and I hate Pat Patriot and I even hate the cheerleaders! I HATE THEM ALL! Why? I don't even really know. I just know that I do.
Obviously, come Sunday I will be rooting for the Giants. This will be challenging for me, because while I don't hate the Giants with the same vitriolic gusto that I reserve for the Patriots, Colts, and Stealers, the Giants have historically been one of my go-to teams for mocking. Encouraging Eli Manning to be sharp, perceptive, and awesome goes against my instinct for having fun at his Fetal Alcohol Syndrome-having expense. This ambivalence is reflected here in a recent Gchat I had with LL Cool Jew:
LL Cool Jew: don't mean to interrupt you again but i had to share this tidbit from the nyt story on eli manning and his upbringing:It goes against everything natural in my world to wish success on a member of the Manning family, but I will root for FAS and love every minute that I see his slack-jawed dullard face so long as he runs up the score against the Patriots. The Pats MUST lose! The amount of aggressive arrogance that will emerge from New England if they actually win the Super Bowl could well be powerful enough to destroy the entire planet.
LL Cool Jew: It was not the first time Manning and his mother had bonded over stories. Long before he learned to read defenses, Manning struggled to decipher Dr. Seuss. “I had trouble reading,” he said.
LL Cool Jew: what a surprise.
LL Cool Jew: xoxo
Razzy: PRICELESS
Razzy: classic FAS
LL Cool Jew: how hilarious is it
LL Cool Jew: he scored a 39 out of 50 on the Wonderlic test
LL Cool Jew: which i just took
LL Cool Jew: and scored 100percent on in less than 5 minutes
Razzy: LOL
LL Cool Jew: even with my weak quantitative skills dude
Razzy: that is AWESOME
LL Cool Jew: have you taken it? it is SO DUMB
Razzy: what's wonderlics, precious, eh?
LL Cool Jew: it's apparently the intelligence test the nfl administers to draft prospects!
LL Cool Jew: how about peyton scored 11 points LOWER THAN ELI
Razzy: are you kidding????
LL Cool Jew: that's what the nyt article said!!
Razzy: how did i not know about this?
LL Cool Jew: i'm not sure!
Razzy: dude i'm bringing this up from now on EVERY TIME someone is like "peyton manning has such a sharp mind"
[Two minutes later]
Razzy: dewd i just scored 100% on the wonderlic test in less than 2 minutes
Razzy: i'm so much smarter than brian griese
Razzy: and both bros manning
Razzy: combined
LL Cool Jew: omg right??
Razzy: dude i should be a nfl QB
Razzy: too bad i'm not a boy :(
Razzy: i'm even smarter than steve young and dan marino
Razzy: and brett favre and drew bledsoe
LL Cool Jew: i take it you took teh test
LL Cool Jew: it's amazing these people can't answer these kinds of questions.
Razzy: oh yes
Razzy: 50, baby!
Razzy: i'm used to taking harder IQ tests
Razzy: this is like easier than the SAT
LL Cool Jew: i know!
LL Cool Jew: even I could do it1
Razzy: brett favre only got a 22
LL Cool Jew: that is so mississippi dude
Razzy: HA marcus vick, michael's bro, scored ELEVEN
LL Cool Jew: how is that even possible
LL Cool Jew: you have to not even try
LL Cool Jew: the wonderlic.
LL Cool Jew: hilarity
Razzy: it's pathetic dude
Razzy: but it proves you don't have to be smart to succeed as a nfl qb
Razzy: and smarts don't guarantee good performance on field
Razzy: cases in point:
Razzy: alex smith
Razzy: jp losman
Razzy: joey harrington scored in the high 30s
Razzy: meanwhile, david garrard got a whopping 14
LL Cool Jew: yeah, and who the f are they
LL Cool Jew: they ain't leaders of men, that's for sure
Razzy: don't forget sage rosenfels with 32
Razzy: (rosenfels=i think he's a jew!)
Razzy: michael vick=20
Razzy: i'm surprised it's that high
Razzy: arrrgh, tom brady did comparatively well at 33
Razzy: hate hate hate
LL Cool Jew: ew of course he did mr perfect
Razzy: whatever, we got 50!
Razzy: ha, tom brady!
Razzy: we're smarter than tom brady
Razzy: stupid dumb tom brady
Razzy: and whatever tom brady
Razzy: FAS Manning got a 39!
At least the Boston Globe's premature confidence in victory bodes well. This was on Amazon yesterday, until it got pulled after the Boston sports blogs went batshit crazy about it being the biggest jinx of all time.
GO GIANTS!
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Mannings, fuck the Pats, NFL football
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Wmania
Name: Wmania
DOB: 1978
Occupation: newly promoted vice president of a major PR company
Hometown: Aptos, California
Current residence: the seat of federal governance, taxation without representation, and Murder Capital of the U.S. of A.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend Wmania is a crazy workaholic, and that apparently pays off, because yesterday she found out that she is now getting a promotion to executive status. She is now the first of my close friends to run around slinging business cards that denote her as an official part of upper management and that list her occupation as president of vice. I'm so proud of her! Yay Wmania!
I've known Wmania since we worked at the Smith newspaper, and we've been through a lot together. We've gone to Spain together, gone to family planning clinics together, eaten Thanksgiving dinner together, tossed back countless dranks together, bitched about our jobs together, searched for her missing personal communication devices together, walked down the aisle ahead of LL Cool Jew together, tipped strippers together, smoked cigarettes together, prevented her cat from beating the shit out of Caesar together, paid too much for "mead" (Bud Light) at a Medieval Times outside Baltimore, and watched countless hours of "Beverly Hills, 90210" together. I could tell lots of embarrassing stories about Wmania--such as the one about the times that I had to strip naked to stave off some faux lezzie drama at Smith and then at our Smith two-year reunion (stripping made sense at the time, and it did stop the processing immediately) or about how her unitesticular ex-boyfriend stole her car and left it parked in the middle of the street with a pumpkin smashed on the windshield as payback for dumping him--and she could certainly tell plenty of embarrassing tales about me. However, I'll spare Wmania from having all her adorable silliness aired on the internets and just stick to extolling her many virtues.
Wmania is a professional rock star. She worked on Wall Street (well, not actually on Wall Street itself...I think her office was in midtown but she was totally into some kind of hardcore investment banking), then went into politics, and now she's apparently rocking the tits off of the public relations industry. I have no idea what she actually does except that it has something to do with the Panama Canal and teenage cough syrup addiction, but she does it well since she's now the vice bitch in charge at her office. I expect her to be running the company in a couple years.
In addition to her prowess at work, Wmania is a charming and genuinely endearing person. She is hilarious, holds her liquor well, and laughs at all my jokes. Anytime Wmania laughs is a good time; she has the kind of laugh that would be a billion-dollar product if you could bottle and sell it. If such a product existed, depression would be a thing of the past. Wmania is a little scatterbrained sometimes, but she is so sweet and caring. One time, we went to a Mexican restaurant after she held my hand through a grueling morning at an abortion clinic, and she actually asked the barely English-speaking bus boy if the margaritas we were about to consume had folic acid in them, because it was counterindicated by the methotrexate shot I'd just gotten to terminate my pregnancy. She is loyal and sincere and completely earnest in her daily actions, and I love her dearly.
That's why I just had to brag about her success at work. I admire her tremendously, and at the risk of sounding cheesy, I am lucky to be friends with such a pro ho and a terrific person. So the entire staff here at RAZZY.org (ie: myself, Caese, and CHONGAY!) send Wmania our fondest wishes and most heartfelt congratulations on her many achievements. Wmania rules so hard.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, for serious people, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, Wmania
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