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
