Monday, March 31, 2008

 

One instance where human trafficking would be a good thing

Until a few weeks ago, Paris Hilton had been staying mercifully out of my gossip internets for the most part.  Unfortunately, then she started a new publicity campaign relationship with Benji Madden from the douchetastic manufactured punk band Good Charlotte.  Now they are like the King and Queen of the paparazzi's Douchecoming Dance and they are touring the world with Benji's band creating a media frenzy at every stop.  First they went to South Africa, which Paris stated she liked almost as much as the country of "West Africa," where Paris paid some AIDS orphans to pretend they liked her for some faux humanitarian photo sessions.  Next stop: Turkey, where Paris did some aimless shimmying that was supposed to approximate a belly dance and looked like an asshole.

Today's episode of Stupidity from the Paris-and-Benji World Tour has the world's most revolting couple stopping in beautiful Prague, where this video was shot of Paris and Benji being chased through the streets by a mob of photographers.  At some point not caught on camera, Paris apparently face plants on the historic cobbled streets.  On an aside, what kind of decent paparazzo doesn't get that on film?  These European paparazzi are pathetic.  A prime moment like that never would have been missed by a photog in Los Angeles.  U!S!A!  U!S!A!  Anyway, then Benji comes out to reason with the clamoring hordes of snappers and confirms that he's every bit the tool he appears, and they get into a cab and go.  It's not very exciting, but here it is if you've got nothing better to do and you're not already off on a killing spree after watching Ashton Kutcher's Nikon ad.

What I would like to know is that, so long as Paris and Benji are in the Czech Republic, couldn't anyone kidnap them and force them into slavery? I've heard from "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" episodes and Lifetime original movies that there's all kinds of human trafficking going in Prague, and I'm sure there's a few depraved sickos out there who would pay top dollar for two minutes of heaven in some black market brothel's rape closet with old Valtrex Hilton.  Better yet, maybe someone could artfully tell her and Benji they should check out this amazingly hedonistic hostel in Bratislava, and someone can get the pleasure of torturing these two assholes to death.  If I never see these two again, it would be entirely too soon.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:29 AM 4 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ad


Name: Ashton Kutcher's Nikon COOLPIX Style Series TV ads

DOB: March 25, 2008 (first air date)

Occupation: making me want to buy any camera BESIDES a Nikon COOLPIX Style Series

Hometown: probably the Kabbalah Center of Los Angeles (although I don't see a dumb red string around Ashton's wrist...maybe they Photoshopped it out?)

Current residence: my TV during episodes of "Rock of Love 2"

Douchebaggery: Nikon COOLPIX Style Series' recent ad campaign has managed to go where very few ad campaigns have before. Upon my first viewing of one of these ads, I immediately placed it in the elite class of commercials as those featuring Peyton Manning hawking MasterCards, the UPS Whiteboard Guy, and every campaign Old Navy has ever produced. This designation is reserved for the upper echelon of commercials that go beyond annoying to actually induce feelings of property-destroying rage. Yesterday I threw my remote control against the couch in disgust upon seeing this, and vowed never to buy any Nikon products ever, EVER again.

If you haven't seen this, Nikon is kind enough to provide a press release about this marketing campaign:
Taking place in trendy locales such as boutique hotels and upscale shopping destinations, the campaign highlights the exquisite styling, fashionable colors, simplicity and great performance of Nikon's Style series compact digital cameras....The television campaign spots, directed by Emmy award winner Brian Buckley, have Kutcher’s COOLPIX camera being discretely taken and passed around by numerous adoring fans who take several pictures with it before slipping it back into Ashton’s pocket. Ashton then notices some surprising pictures when he reviews the photos on his camera's LCD screen.
Now, I'll distill out that PR product-branding crap and tell you about how this commercial really goes down. Ashton Kutcher is holding court at "the Chateau" (presumably Marmont) when he gets a call on his Blackberry. He leaves his man-purse unattended with his Nikon COOLPIX Style Series poking tantalizingly out of the side pocket for a trio of giggling skanks to ogle while he takes his call. As he's on the phone, the bitches immediately grab the camera and start taking pictures of themselves making stupid faces and laughing hysterically. They're so busy guffawing at their own silliness that you can't really hear them say "Oh, isn't Ashton Kutcher going to be surprised when he goes through his COOLPIX deleting pictures of Rumer Willis's chin and finds these *hilarious* pictures of us sticking our tongues out, making fish faces, and cracking up!" between high-pitched bursts of chortling, but you can easily imagine it. However, the joke's on them, because this is Ashton Kutcher, professional Hollywood prankster, and apparently you can't ever assume that getting punk'd isn't an option when he's around. Ashton is on the phone briefing an unknown accomplice that his quarry has taken the bait and Mission: Get Starfucking Social Climbers at the Chateau to Make Stupid Faces for my COOLPIX Camera is in full effect. "No! They don't know I know they're doing it," he reassures his co-conspirator that his identity as the instigator of this hilarious stunt remains concealed. Yes, there is layer upon layer of dramatic irony in this ad. Ashton then returns to collect his satchel just as the girls have replaced the camera and leave. On the way out he high-fives the valet to celebrate yet another successful caper and reassures him, "I'll send you copies."  Then Ashton checks out the pictures. "OHHHH!" he shouts in a pathetic imitation of Andrew Dice Clay, apparently blown away by the scandalous hilarity of a girl taking cross-eyed self-portraits. Viewers are then advised to purchase a COOLPIX Style Series camera.

I'd like to know WHY exactly this should make me want to buy a COOLPIX camera. Because I'm an easily amused, purse-toting, metrosexual loser who gets off staging elaborate deceptive traps to obtain silly G-rated pictures of probable reality show rejects before I go home to bang Demi Moore(-ticia Adams)? NO! I don't want a camera that can be used to pull off pointless and completely annoying pranks. If Ashton really wanted to sell me a camera, he should quit acting cute, get wasted, and prove that the COOLPIX Style Series is durable enough to withstand being stepped on, dropped accidentally out of purse or pocket onto a sidewalk, run over by a cab, operated effectively while in the reverse piledriver position, or submerged in scotch or Heineken.  Ashton Kutcher needs to go back to the celebrity oblivion he was dwelling in and stop ruining my consumer appetite for digital cameras.

I tried to find a video of this ad, but apparently everyone on the YouTubes has had better things to do than irritate the internets by posting this trash for public viewing.  I did, however, find another ad from this campaign (the promised "upscale shopping destinations" version).  It's equally aggravating, so if you need that extra something to go from really, really, REALLY pissed off to Michael Douglas-in-Falling Down-pissed off, feel free to torture yourself by clicking here.  If you too survive that hellish experience, I think you'll agree that a boycott of all Nikon products is warranted on the basis of their commercials being so maddeningly awful.  These commercials are so likely to inspire violent fury that they are a menace to public safety!   Get them off the air. Just say no to Nikon!

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:15 AM 5 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my breasts


Name: right and left (I don't have names for them)

DOB: November 17, 1978 (although they really didn't come into present form until sometime around 1993 or 1994)

Occupation: source of batshit craziness, popping out of my shirt, totally ruling

Hometown: Puyallup, Washington

Current residence: my chest, Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Whether lauded or maligned, my tits are one of my best features. That's why I always put pictures of them up when I have nothing better to do. I don't have a particularly high opinion regarding my facial good looks. I'm not necessarily ugly, but I don't think I'm that pretty either. Facewise, I would rate my looks as more or less average. I could be more busted, but I could also be a lot more beautiful. My breasts, however, are fucking awesome, and the only people who have ever said otherwise are anonymous commenters on the internets who can't come up with anything better to hate on me about (these are usually the same haters who call me "fat" even though I'm a fucking size 4).

I've had a love-hate relationship with my cans throughout my life.  I started school early, and I hit puberty late anyway, so I was the last girl in my class to develop breasts.  There was this one kid who used to fold over his All Saints School uniform sweatshirt at nipple level, and run around saying, "Check it out, I've got bigger boobs than Razzy!"  I remember in the fifth or sixth grade I felt so left out by my lack of development that I begged my mom to buy me a size AAA training bra just so I wouldn't be left out among all my friends in the grappling with puberty.  On one occasion, I made the very ill-advised decision to stuff said training bra with Kleenex prior to going to a movie with some friends.  After the movie, I went out to dinner with my family, and upon being seated my dad said, "Got a stuffy nose?"  I was like, "Huh?"  He said, "Because I see you packed some extra Kleenex," snatched a stray piece of tissue that was poking out of my collar, and blew his nose with it.  I was mortified, my brother and dad were laughing hysterically, and my mother was fighting back laughter while trying to get pissed at my dad for embarrassing me.  I was horrified at the time, but in hindsight I can hardly blame my father for cashing in on a golden joke-making opportunity.

I think because I spent so many years feeling insecure about my breasts (or lack thereof), that when I finally got them, I went overboard showing them off.  I didn't realize that I had a decent rack until I was about to go to college, when enough boys had complimented them for me to take notice.  Since then, I've been overcompensating for those many years of breastless agony by exposing them whenever and wherever possible.  Since my tits are awesome, I consider it a service to my fellow man, and a fun party trick that's always good for a laugh.  For going on fifteen years now, whenever there's a dull moment, I can always count on my fun bags to bring excitement, laughter, surprise, and general mirth.  This weekend was no exception.

On Saturday, I attended a birthday party for my dear friend JerseyGirl.  As there were several other hardcore Razzyphiles in attendance at the dinner beforehand (Rack, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, Senioritis, Twathopper, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy, JerseyGirl's boyfriend Kodiak), at some point the topic of discussion came around to how stupid the editors of IvyGate are for thinking that breast-centric blog entries are actually an expression of "batshit" craziness.  The general consensus was that any undergraduates who sneer at free photos of bare breasts should take a gander in the mirror before slinging around accusations of mental illness, because that in itself is a much surer measure of insanity.  Kodiak thus declared that "every picture I take of you tonight is going to be of your boobs." He delivered. Yesterday, I got a text from JerseyGirl saying, "Dude, there's pictures of your tits all over Kodiak's Facebook." And indeed, half of the "JerseyGirl's Birthday!" photo album on Kodiak's Facebook is comprised of this:

I'm just amazed that none of these pictures include me pulling my top further down to immortalize some bare breast action as being an integral part of the celebrations commemorating JerseyGirl's 28th year of blessing the world with her presence.  Bare or barely covered, though, my boobs were one of the reasons why it was, according to JerseyGirl, "OMG!  Like the best JerseyGirl's 28th birthday Beirut party in the history of the world ever."

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:19 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Sunday, March 30, 2008

 

Whatten hell...?

Apparently Latin America doesn't have the market cornered on zany variety shows.  I thought that there could be no three-hour exhibit of cars, stupid human tricks, marital counseling, skanky Fanta girl-esque chicks, singing contests, immigration tips, impromptu weddings, child custody battles, and sketch comedy more wack-tacular than the incomparable "Sabado Gigante."  I once saw a hedge-clipping contest on that show once!  Seriously, two guys with pruning shears raced each other to trim two long-ass hedges for the glory of being given $50 worth of "El mundo del ingles de Disney" products by the perennially suave hot Chilean Jew, Don Francisco.

Well, it seems Germany is giving the Spanish-speaking world a run for its dinero.  They have a similar show called "Wetten, dass...?", which Wikipedia also tells me is the most successful television show in Europe.  "Wetten, dass...?" means "Wanna bet...?" but watching a little of it, and I'm thinking it must also mean "What the hell...?", because that's the kind of reaction it elicits from me.  See if you don't react the same way to THIS:


I mean, "Whatten hell...?" It's this skinny dude crushing cans between his shoulder blades for no other reason except to drive the crowd wild and, seemingly, impress some cute girls. I love his assistant, who is a poor man's Seann William Scott rocking David Bowie's haircut from the movie Labyrinth.  I also love the host of this show, who seemingly appropriated Peter Frampton's hair and Siegfried and Roy's wardrobe as his signature look.  HOT.

According to Wikipedia, the premise of this show is that ordinary people perform bizarre tasks (examples include igniting a pocket lighter with an excavator's shovel and pushing a car with a spear with tip resting on the contestant's throat), and celebrity guests place friendly wagers with each other regarding the outcome.  Some celebrities who have been on this show include Heidi Klum, Grace Jones, Hugh Grant, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and...CURTIS "50 CENT" JACKSON AND ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY!  Why did I not see a video of Fitty betting Kells over how many cans this skinny dude could crush between his scapulae and then trash-talking each other in German??  I need to see that!  I'd watch that every morning before going to work!

They need to get a cable channel showing "Wetten, dass...?" over here stateside immediately.  If this show can attract over 50% of the German-speaking viewer demographic In Germany, Austria, Liechtenstein, and Switzerland, there's no reason it can't pull some pretty big Nielsen ratings here in the States too.  I don't even speak any German besides "bratwurst" and "schiesse" and "guten tag" and I would watch this.  I have got to discuss this with my German friend Js and Ps and see if he can hook it up with details about how I might be able to get more "Wetten, dass...?" in my life.  Maybe he has some DVDs or something.

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:19 PM 0 Comments Links to this post

Saturday, March 29, 2008

 

Hawking a loogie

Last Saturday, some dude in the not-particularly-storied burgh of Port Orchard, Washington decided to take his daughters out for a burger at a local fast-food joint.  He dressed for the occasion by glamming himself up in his finest Pittsburgh Steelers regalia.

Wearing anything related to the (sonofabitchbastard) Shitsburgh Stealers is not an advisable move in the middle of redneck Seahawks country.  It's even less advisable to begin making asshole quips about how the Stealers co-conspired with Bill Leavy's officiating crew to rob the Seattle Seahawks of the Lombardi trophy in Super Bowl XL.  This asshole learned this the hard way, and in this case "the hard way" means via saliva comprising the special sauce atop his burger,  according to this riveting report from the Kitsap Sun:
A 24-year-old South Kitsap man — and self-proclaimed Seattle Seahawks fan — was arrested Sunday for allegedly spitting on the hamburger he prepared for a man wearing Pittsburgh Steelers attire, according to Kitsap County Sheriff's Office reports.

Deputies said the 37-year-old man in Steelers garb took his daughters to a Mile Hill Drive fast food restaurant Saturday evening, and "began trading friendly barbs about his team and their victory over the Seattle Seahawks in Super Bowl XL," reports said.

One employee told the man that he'd "better not say that to the guy that's making your food," but the man thought it was a joke, reports said.

That is, until he opened his "clamshell-style" hamburger container and discovered what he called a "loogie" on his hamburger.
Ah, bless the other Seahawks fans in the P-N-Dub. I'm clearly not the only one clinging to feelings of overwhelming bitterness and resentment with regard to the travesty that occurred February 6, 2006.  There are even some fellow Hawks faithful out there who are willing to literally spit on the indignity of having an obnoxious Steeler fan rub it in.

This story gets even better.  Apparently spitting in someone's food is considered assault, so the chef showing his disdain for the douchebag assclowns of Heinz Field via loogie was visited by some sheriff's deputies the next day.  Like every other foodservice employee from the P-N-Dub I've ever met, this heroic 12th man likes to take the edge off his lingering grief over the Seahawks' postseason misfortunes by indulging in some cannabis.  When the deputies showed up, mild hilarity ensued:
A deputy was informed by the manager that the person responsible may be a 24-year-old South Kitsap man who was near his quitting time when the incident occurred. He also failed to show up for work the next day, the manager said.

The deputy went to the 24-year-old's house, and when he knocked on the door, a voice from inside yelled that he "wasn't buying any ... girl scout cookies," the deputy said.

The deputy told him, "I won't sell you any," and when the man opened the door, the deputy "was immediately confronted with the strong odor of burnt marijuana."

Eventually, the man brought the deputy a bag of marijuana and he was arrested. The man also confessed to spitting in the 37-year-old's hamburger container to "gross him out ... because he was a Steelers fan," deputies said.
Hatred of the Stealers, willingness to endure a night in jail in defense of the Hawks' honor, and a fondness for smokin' the ganj...it doesn't get more P-N-Dubby than that.  This unnamed and now probably unemployed line cook is a true local hero.  They should let him raise the 12th man flag at Qwest Field on opening day for his devotion and loyalty, send him on a date to Ivar's or Sea Galley or somewhere similarly classy with the Sea Gal of his choice, give him AT LEAST a complimentary pair of Deion Branch neon green receiver gloves, and let him pet Taima the osprey who flies out of the tunnel ahead of the team during home games.  He is the pride of the Pacific Northwest.

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:45 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

It's the deadliest time of year

YESSSSSSS!!!!!  "Deadliest Catch" season 4 premieres on April 15th on the Discovery Channel!  Looks like KatieScarlett and I better reserve our usual barstools at the Times Square Red Lobster for our annual pre-funk.  We usually go there to partake in some of the deadliest all-you-can-eat catch before returning to our respective apartments to get our minds blown and text message each other frantically about it.

"Deadliest Catch" is the greatest show about a job EVER.  It has everything that could possibly make a show great: hypothermia, grisly injuries, hot fisherman, chain smoking, salty sailor talk, practical jokes, crab, rogue waves, danger, violent storms, Coast Guard helicopters, Scandinavians everywhere, and the finest fourth generation skipper ever to mine the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea for "red gold," Captain Sig Hansen of the mighty F/V Northwestern!

"Deadliest Catch" is so good that it has become a worldwide phenomenon.  "Deadliest Catch" has a following in the UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Sweden, Norway, and Germany.  In addition to live crucifixions and prison reenactments of the "Thriller" video, "Deadliest Catch" is a monster hit in the Philippines.  It's also what the "terrorists" at Gitmo get rewarded with after an especially productive waterboarding session.  Not even being detained indefinitely in violation of international law can keep an enemy combatant from succumbing to the awe of witnessing the gravitas and power of Captain Sig barking f-bomb-laden orders at his crew in forty-foot seas while pulling a hot string somewhere halfway to Siberia, or the touching family moments such as Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie giving his sons Jake and Josh wheezy lessons in manliness during impromptu plier-based tooth extractions ("you're not makin' love to it...just give it a yank!").  

God, I fucking love this show.  Luckily, the lady who runs the website Deadliest Reports has posted a "sneak peek" of season 4, and I couldn't be more stoked.  First, there's ample footage of Sig regulating with his crew and generally looking hot while perched in the wheelhouse of the Northwestern like a great king atop his throne.  Second, it also appears there might be some explosions this season, and I'm a big fan of explosions.  I mean, I hope nobody gets hurt, but explosions totally rule.
Sneak Peek 2 - S4

If you aren't counting down the days to April 15th, then I seriously question what's wrong with you. "Deadliest Catch" totally rules. I just hope that Sig Hansen isn't so famous now that he forgets that I'm not just any "hardcore Northwestern fan", but by his own declaration I'm his .1 fan! 

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:57 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, March 28, 2008

 

Ivy League hating fails to meet expectations

Last week, my ongoing legal drama got covered by IvyGate, a gossip website for the Ivy Leagues.  They pulled a picture of me off my lab's website in which I look fucking HORRIBLE, so I sent them an e-mail with an update regarding my legal situation, a commendation for their coverage, and a request for a photo swap.  I didn't want to give the editors of this website the impression that I wanted them to put a disproportionately hot picture of myself, so I sent some pictures that were equally unflattering but at least funny.

Well, apparently despite the fact that she runs something as unbelievably lame as an IVY LEAGUE GOSSIP BLOG, editrix Maureen O'Connor thought my cheeky e-mail and request were evidence of my being "batshit crazy" and wrote a lengthy post to that effect.  Certainly sending correspondence obviously intended to amuse and goofy pictures are right up there with auditory hallucinations and imaginary friends in terms of diagnostic criteria for insanity.  She also accused me of sending pictures featuring "nudity," as apparently my Lil' Kim and Britney Spears Halloween costumes offended her prudish sensibilities (which may have been because she didn't get the cultural references at all and seemed to think that these were outfits I routinely wear year-round), and suggested that I have no future as a scientist.  OH NO!  IvyGate has destroyed my career by insinuating that I'm mentally ill and made inferences as to my professional potential and ability...maybe I should sue them for defamation!  I hear that's what all the kids are doing these days.

Oh, wait.  Any employer who relies on the opinion of uptight Princeton undergrads running a shit-talking gossip blog to judge my merits as a virologist is too dumb to meet my standards, and really, the only evidence of my supposed batshit craziness that Maureen presents is that there are pictures of my boobies on the internets, I jokingly compared a guy who has sexually harassed, threatened, and menaced me in lab for YEARS to Hitler and Bin Laden, and I bragged that I could run a better presidential campaign than Hillary Clinton.  Granted, I suppose that since delusional people can claim defamation any time someone writes an opinion of them they don't like, I could always go through the trouble of suing, but groundless libel lawsuits are for losers. Besides, Maureen redeemed herself when she described RAZZY.org as a "bizarro internet 1.0 media empire" (and I think calling it 1.0 is being generous...I would rate my web design skills at a lousy 0.005) and wondered if I'm an "insane genius."  Plus, I got mad extra traffic!  Looks like I'll be getting $10 in ad revenue this month instead of $5.  BOO-YAH!  Thanks, IvyGate!

Anyway, Maureen's repeated use of the phrase "batshit crazy" was clearly a gem of originality compared to many of her colleagues in terms of insulting me.  Calling me fat and/or ugly and/or a slut has always been a favorite way for Razzy Haters to express displeasure regarding something I've posted, but who knew that the Ivy Leaguers of the internets were equally trite?  Some of the comments on the IvyGate post:
Maybe if we were the last two people alive, and there were no sheep. Are there sheep?-Y10 (as in Yale class of 2010)

this girl is astoundingly unattractive-ugh

Seriously i am tired of looking at this ugly girl. Go away!! Please, put up something new. It's been long enough. What the hell is taking so long?-P11

Your craziness comes from your willingness to smear some guy for not giving you oral sex.
Your trashiness comes from your posting your flabby body all over the interwebs.-@Razzy/Angie

I'm waiting to see something besides this chick's ugly-ass body all over my screen.-Y10

This chick is god-awfully ugly. Please put a new post on the front page.-Y09 (man, those Yalies really aren't feeling me!)
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. I'm a fat, ugly, attention whore and I shouldn't talk shit about assholes who scream threats at me for writing about my own damn sex life because I'm too much of a fatass troll to get laid with the undoubtedly Adonis-like nineteen-year-olds at Princeton and Yale.   Boo hoo.  The only one I give any props to is the person who went deep through my archives, found a post where I talked about my concerns regarding getting HPV-induced throat cancer from all the unprotected cocksucking I've done in my time (and on a virological aside, like 90% of college age adults have HPV, so I'm hardly alone in these concerns), and noted that "I'd rather lick a stripper pole than touch that."

I'm disappointed that those student ID card-carrying Ivy Leaguers couldn't come up with anything better than the same tired fat/ugly/slut/pathetic/attention whore crap that Razzy Haters have been slinging at me for the past three years that I've blessed the internets with my awesomeness.  Given the insufferably superior opinion most Ivy League kids have of their own intellect, I would have expected better material.  As it turns out, not a single member of this elite group of blog reading intelligentsia could come up with something to top the greatest Razzy anonymous comment hate-on of all time ("Always the cum dumpster, never the bride").  In fact, the anti-Razzy comments deviating from this vein mainly complained about how this story isn't good enough for a highly respected journalistic outlet like IvyGate to publish, and (erroneously) that I'm complaining about sexism because they don't like me.  I'm not complaining about shit except that these lame-ass cliched insults are BORING, the editor of a gossip blog considers cleavage and a bare midriff to be "nudity" and can't distinguish a Lil' Kim Halloween costume from normal honey-getting attire, and I expected better vitriol from students of such reputed academic institutions as Princeton and Yale.

I'm really disappointed with the caliber of hating that the Ivy Leagues can produce.  As long as they're going to stick with the ugly/fat/skank routine, they could try to get creative with it.  Granted, I don't expect brilliance on par with my batshit crazy insane genius, but this is DeVry University-level hateration at best.  Step it up, kids.  I know you can do better.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:04 AM 13 Comments Links to this post
 

Doggystyle glamour shots

It's been awhile since I've reminded you all what a pair of awesome dogs I have.  Okay, CAESAR is awesome, and Chingy! is more along the lines of awesomely gross, but you get the idea.  Last night the dogs were being especially cute so I took a couple pictures of them as they were occupying most of my bed.


I then decided to take some individual shots, primarily because I am always insecure on Caesar's behalf.  Chingy!, being a generally bad dog who constantly disobeys, stinks, engages in shockingly revolting behavior (eating homeless guy shit, stamping ass prints on my friends' white pants, crapping on my kitchen floor immediately after being taken for a walk just to be a dick, unprovokedly ejaculating on my living room floor, etc.), has made it his life's mission to destroy every last bit of personal property I own, and yet somehow has still managed to command legions of fans (seriously, I once got FAN MAIL ADDRESSED TO CHINGY!), seems to get most of the attention here on RAZZY.org. Poor Caesar, who is a generally well-behaved, useful (at least in terms of stick-chasing and barking at the neighbors he inherently harbors deep distrust towards), and devastatingly handsome dog, gets way less press on this blog by virtue of his good dog status than that asshole Chingy!, so I figured I should take some shots of Caesar being adorable so he could claim his share of the love. Lord knows Caesar is more deserving, and last night he was giving some good dog face:

Because I am secretly a softhearted wimp (don't tell anyone, I don't want my reputation as a batshit crazy skank bitch ruined), I told Chingy! that I'd take a picture of him too. He was being a diva, though, and decided that as long as I'm going to call him an asshole, he would oblige by living up to the title:

If giving the camera a glimpse of his Eye of Sauron (a great eye, lidless, wreathed in flame) doesn't define class and elegance, I don't know what does.

CHONGAY CHONG, Caesar pictures!

[RAZZY Update: As if he knows I'm writing shit about him, Chingy! just came up, sneezed on me, and try to lay down on my MacBook keyboard.  Fucking asshole!]  

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:34 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kristin "Billie" Davis


Name: Kristin Davis (not to be confused with Charlotte from "Sex and the City") 

DOB: 1976?

Occupation: female mega-pimp

Hometown: per the Post AKA the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, a "rough and tumble California trailer park"

Current residence: Rikers Island, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Apparently ex-Girls Gone Wild who look disturbingly like my friend LL Cool Jew are not the only hookers former Governor Eliot Spitzer likes to bone. In a New York Post article cleverly titled "And There He Ho's Again," we are introduced to this lovely lady, Billie Davis, a madam who allegedly serviced the horny governor personally. Billie claims to run the "world's largest escort agency," and is known for what the Post describes as having "a reputation for hard-partying, shameless self-promotion, and a rumored 10,000-name-long client list." That list supposedly includes a number of "big names" and "sports superstars," including one "very prominent" Yankee, and a number of Spitzer's campaign contributers.

I love Billie because she is what a madam/hooker is supposed to look like. Bleached blonde, tits everywhere, porn star pancake, and cocksucker red lipstick in full effect is the look I would go for if I were a john. It's the look I'd rock if I were to get into the prostitution biz. Actually, now that I think of it, it's the look I sometimes rock now when I'm going out on the town to pick up some fellas.

Billie is such a great hooker name.  It's the kind of name that a hard-drinkin', no-nonsense gal with a sharp tongue and a heart of gold (I'm assuming she has a heart of gold) should have.  Billie is the kind of girl who would have worked in a saloon back in olden days, carrying a Derringer in her garter and wearing rouge to the shock and disdain of all the so-called "ladies" in town.  She reminds me of a modern-day Belle Watling from Gone With the Wind.

Belle was the most notorious whore in Atlanta, yet she could always be counted upon in times of crisis.  She gave actual gold money rather than worthless Confederate dollars to the woefully underfunded hospital, provided an alibi for (pussified loser) Ashley Wilkes when he was shot illegally raiding the shantytown where Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy was attacked while driving her buggy, and dispensed sage advice to Rhett Butler regarding his marital woes.  She wore slutty clothes and perfume, dyed her hair, didn't give a fuck what anyone thought, constantly swilled champagne, and ran the most happening brothel in town.  I have no idea if Billie here would give money to help wounded soldiers during wartime, but I have no doubt that in every other way, she is as shrewd and entrepreneurial as Belle (apparently she had some sort of extremely elaborate money laundering scheme going on to take the criminal taint off her millions in earnings).  She's certainly got the hooker hotness down pat.

I say kudos to Eliot Spitzer for finally demonstrating some real taste in his prostitutes.  That Ashley Alexandra Dupre chick was too girl-next-door for my liking; I like my hoes to look like they just came to life and walked off a blow-up doll assembly line.  Thank you, Billie Davis, for not getting your money out of harm's way in time to skip town, because I expect you to grace the cover of New York's finest tabloid newspaper and inspire 70-point bad puns for months to come.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:28 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: the Los Angeles Times


Name: the Los Angeles Times

DOB: 1881

Occupation: getting duped by corpulent imprisoned con artists

Hometown: Los Angeles, California

Current residence: same

Douchebaggery: On St. Patrick's Day, Pulitzer Prize-winning entertainment reporter Chuck Phillips went to press with a story suggesting that Sean "P. Diddy/Puffy/Diddy/whatever the hell he's calling himself now" Combs was involved in the shooting of Tupac Shakur at a New York City studio two years before his death. When the story went to press, Diddy vehemently denied any involvement in that incident. Since the story was based on several FBI interview reports, the world authority on making stories out of official documents, The Smoking Gun, decided to investigate.

It turns out that Chuck Phillips has been slacking on his pimping when it comes to establishing the authenticity of his sources. The four "302s" he used as sources were actually typed from the Allenwood Federal Penitentiary by this portly fellow, Jimmy Sabatino:

Jimmy Sabatino is currently doing eight years for fraud and identity theft, the latest in a long string of outlandish criminal misdeeds. Starting in 1994, with a felony conviction for credit card fraud at the tender age of 17, Jimmy has spent most of his adult life behind bars and/or running ludicrous scams. He has scammed computers, cell phones, hotel stays, Super Bowl tickets, pagers, limo rides, and various other merchandise. He also got thrown in the clink during a trip to Merry Olde Englande for defrauding a hotel, and spent his tenure there making telephone death threats against President William Jefferson (Hot Piece) Clinton and threatening to blow up a federal courthouse, offenses for which he was promptly arrested, extradited to the U.S., and imprisoned.  The Miami New Times even wrote an epic feature story in 1999 detailing Jimmy's illustrious career as a grifter and all-around fraudulent douchebag, including an anecdote about him posing as a Sony Music executive to get backstage at an Enrique Iglesias concert.  However, this was all lost on Chuck Phillips when he wrote the story about Diddy arranging a hit on Tupac, as he described Jimmy as "a fixture in Combs's circle...helping him stage lavish parties and land corporate sponsorships."

Even worse than Chuck Phillips's failure to do so much as Google "Jimmy Sabatino" is the fact that he missed that the FBI hasn't used typewriters such as the prison model used to create these "302s" in over 30 years, FBI agents generally have enough of a command of the written word to remember that i goes before e except after c, and the FBI didn't even investigate the Tupac-Biggie bullshit!  For whatever reason, the federal investigation into the whole East Coast-West Coast rap feud was handled by the Secret Service.  Yet Chuck Phillips just assumed that these 302s were typed by a federal agent inclined to incorporate phrases like "peice of shit" into his reports, apparently without raising an eyebrow.

Chuck believed all sorts of whoppers that Jimmy Sabatino told, including his claim that he was a "rodie" on a New Kids on the Block tour at age 15, his cultivation of Mark Wahlberg's rap career, he was shut out of money owed on Biggie's posthumous album Born Again for "creative consultant" work, he was a "person of interest" in the murder of Biggie despite being incarcerated in Miami, he negotiated a peace treaty on Diddy's behalf with Suge Knight, that he was rebuffed by Tupac the night of the shooting and subsequently "dealt with" Tupac for disrespecting him, and was the son of a high-ranking captain in the Colombo crime family.

Having recently become far more acquainted with defamation law than I ever anticipated, I am confident in saying that I have been a far more responsible journalist than Chuck Phillips.  For one thing, I have never written anything that I didn't believe to be true based on reliable sources.  For another, I would never present anything as fact that was based on such obviously suspicious material.  And my website is hardly the LA Times.  Rather, my blog purports to be "the ultimate source for useless bullshit," which should be considered a disclaimer that ANYTHING printed here should not be considered reliable news or anything besides my opinion and (feeble) attempts at being funny.  Unless, of course, one considers "useless bullshit" to be their criteria for news that's fit to print.  If guys like Chuck Phillips can get a Pulitzer for outstanding journalistic techniques like rehashing forged documents originating from a federal prison that are easily disproven by a simple Google search, I'd like to know when I can expect to receive that honor for my achievements in the field of bullshit generating.  I'll have to work the funds for a new tschotschke shelf into my budget to display it and prevent Chingy! and Caesar from getting at it, as I imagine they would find that a Pulitzer makes for a most delicious chew toy.   Then again, maybe I'm out of the running for this prestigious honor as, unlike Chuck, I have never actually recklessly disregarded the truth and committed defamation or libel.  So much for my future lucrative career in blog-based journalism.  Fuck...I guess I'm stuck with this science crap.

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:16 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, March 27, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater


Name: Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater

DOB: 1934

Occupation: judging competing talent and entertaining tourists

Hometown: Harlem, New York, New York

Current residence: same--253 W. 125th Street

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was really sick the last couple days and basically didn't do anything besides lay in bed and consume soup and DayQuil. Luckily, the anonymous commenter currently doing the lion's share of Razzy hating has proved to be as inept at opining on medical matters as he/she is at correctly predicting my legal demise, and I don't have AIDS, bubonic plague, or anything resembling a hemorrhagic fever virus. I was laid out by my old nemesis, rhinovirus, and now am on the mend. I was worried, though, that I wouldn't be able to rally enough to make it out to Amateur Night last night.

My friend JerseyGirl is crazy about "Showtime at the Apollo," and for her impending birthday, her boyfriend Kodiak thought it would be fun to surprise her and her tightest girls with tickets to Amateur Night. He bought tickets for us all weeks in advance and I knew that I'd have to be hospitalized in order to really skip out on it. Besides, I've always wanted to check it out, and it's just one of those New York things I haven't gotten around to doing in the five years since I've lived here. So I took a handful of DayQuil and trekked the one subway stop down to 125th street.

When we got there, JerseyGirl was--in her words--"straight-up cereally buggin'" and "renarded" with excitement. "LOOK! It's the TREE OF HOPE!" she shouted, pointing at the stump-type thing that the contestants rub for luck before taking the stage. "O.M.G. I can't believe we are actually here," she said. "O.M.G. O.M.G. This is totz so awesome." I think she was happy with her present.

I was disappointed to learn that the Sandman had passed in 2003 (it's been awhile since I caught an episode of "It's Showtime at the Apollo" on TV) and the shepherd's staff he used to drag people offstage is not used by his replacement. The amateurs were entertaining, even if there was an excess of dance troupes. If I'd had my way, every last douchebag in a stupid sweatshirt would have been dragged away in shame. I hate dancing, both in terms of doing it and watching it. There was this one fat woman who collapsed onstage singing "I Who Have Nothing" (my choice to win...unfortunately, she did not), and a jazz horn ensemble called the "BSHA Group." They sucked, but we all declared them JerseyGirl and Kodiak's favorites on the basis of their name.

"BS? H and A? That group is made for you two, dude!" I exclaimed (H and A are Kodiak and JerseyGirl's first initials, and BS--not bullshit--is one of their special BF/GF bonding activities).

"Dude, our BS is way more inspired than this," said JerseyGirl, scoffing at their uninspired rendition of "My Favorite Things." However, from that point on, we all referred to that group as the "Buttsex Kodiak JerseyGirl Group."

In spite of not being at the top of my game in terms of verbal capabilities (I was having a hard time shouting "BOOOO!!!!" without collapsing into a fit of coughing and--like the true dweeb that I am--had to take several hits off my asthma inhaler during the event), I still managed to get very excited about Amateur Night.   And today I am not back to 100%, but I am considerably improved.  Amateur Night was not only worth getting out of bed for as an evening of entertainment and as a salute to my friend turning 28, it actually may have helped facilitate my recovery.  I do NOT shout "BOOOOO!!!!" to Amateur Night.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:07 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Ariva


Name: Ariva

DOB: 2001

Occupation: the future of nicotine addiction

Hometown: Virginia, the "heart of tobacco country"

Current residence: a drugstore near you

Douchebaggery: Thanks to the gossip internets, I've seen a bunch of celebrity skanks running around prominently displaying boxes of Ariva.  Supposedly Lindsay Lohan has been paid to prominently display her Ariva boxes wherever she goes.  All the gossip pundits seem to think this is a new product for quitting smoking, and have been crowing accolades about these fucktards kicking the habit.  As I am quitting smoking myself, I decided to go to Ariva's website to see why it is better than the Commit lozenge, which tastes nasty and makes me sick to my stomach.

I was surprised to see a video on Ariva's website in which a friendly-looking couple talk about how it sucks to be a smoker who can't light up anywhere you want, and how taking long plane rides and hanging out with uptight anti-smoking family members can be a pain in the ass.  They also talk about how many smokers would chew to get through it, but spitting is gross and can get messy.  There's also a lot of information about how much healthier dissolvable tobacco is compared to smoking or chew.  That's not the kind of game that smoking cessation products typically are running, and I realized that's because Ariva is NOT a nicotine replacement product designed to get somebody to kick the habit.  Ariva is designed to be a permanent substitute for cigarettes, and in no way wants its consumer to even consider giving up tobacco use.  Tricksy!

This is Big Tobacco 2.0.  Ariva is being marketed as a health product, but is really just the same cancer-causing, addictive shit in a clever new package.  Even better, because it's part of a new formulation, the FDA is refusing to regulate it.  So it can be sold to basically anyone, including the kiddies.  Hats off to the tobacco companies for coming up with a new way to get kids addicted to tobacco candy under the guise of it being a healthier, more socially acceptable alternative to smoking.   I'm skeptical regarding the health benefits or social acceptibility of anything that has been so heartily embraced by old Valtrex Hilton.  However, considering that Ariva doesn't look very different from a package of Icebreakers mints, the dumbass kids these days will probably all be hooked on it within the next year.  Then in ten years, when they all are missing jaws from mouth cancer, every state will sue Big Tobacco again and heavily restrict/tax the shit out of Ariva sales, and Ariva use will be socially stigmatized, and they'll develop tobacco breath spray or some other way of luring in a new generation of addicts.  Ah, the circle of life.

# posted by Razzy @ 7:31 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

 

Sick day

Apologies to all you who are useless bullshit-deprived, but I'm still in the throes of what appears to be a bad head cold. A really, really, REALLY miserable bad head cold.  Sorry to disappoint those Haters who were hoping I was dying of AIDS-related pneumonia, but I'm pretty sure this is just a miserable strain of my age-old nemesis: human rhinovirus, or something similar.  I am an expert on rhinovirus infections since that's what I've been diligently slaving away on in lab for the past five years.  

Normally, being that it's a day I'm not going to post much, I would put up links to my old posts and/or a picture of my tits.  However, as I'm too sick and too foggy from the DayQuil to do anything besides heat up more soup and I currently look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Razzy thanks to excessive nose-blowing, neither of those are an option today.  Furthermore, I have an engagement tonight that I cannot miss, so I'm going to make the most of my down time today by convalescing as much as possible.  So Razzyphiles wish for my speedy recovery, Razzy Haters wish for my imminent death, and I'll just keep eating soup and watching old episodes of "Dexter" and "Beverly Hills, 90210" and preparing myself for my triumphant return (hopefully) tomorrow.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:56 AM 5 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: my worn-down immune system


Name: my weakened immune system, specifically my innate antiviral machinery

DOB: November 17, 1978

Occupation: failing to protect my respiratory epithelium from whatever virus is infecting it

Hometown: Puyallup, Washington

Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York

Douchebaggery: I suppose really more than my immune system, I should blame myself. Over the past couple weeks I've dealt with my problems in typical fashion: with a resounding "FUCK IT, WHO CARES?" and a deep glass of scotch. This drinking to escape my woes hasn't seemed quite as sad as it should because I've had a birthday party to attend every week for the last four weeks. Last Saturday, I went to two different birthday parties in one day. I have a lot of friends who were born in March.

Unfortunately, the consequences all this boozing and not sleeping include coming down with whatever virus is currently ravaging my respiratory organs. I'm thinking that it's probably a rhinovirus, coxsackievirus, adenovirus, or coronavirus. I praying to God that it's not influenza, because I don't have time to be incapacitated. I have more birthday parties to attend, and I have a bunch of shit brewing in the old laboratory that I need to handle so I can give a kick-ass seminar in two weeks, and hopefully, a kick-ass thesis committee meeting after that. So far I haven't developed any GI symptoms or myalgia, so I'm optimistic that I don't have the flu, but it would be just my luck to get that now at the worst possible time to do so. I hope it's not a portent that the above graphic I chose to illustrate antiviral innate immunity appears to be showing influenza virus, or at least some other enveloped virus with a segmented RNA genome (and flu is the only one I can think of offhand that's a relevant human respiratory pathogen). I tried to find one with a (hot) picornavirus, but that was the most comprehensive schematic of both the antiviral RNA virus-sensing machinery, subsequent production of interferon and signaling through the JAK-STAT pathway, and induction of interferon-stimulated genes, and I didn't feel like digging through 10,000 backissues of Nature Reviews journals.

Anyway, just take my word for it that all that science stuff I put up there isn't working for me like it should because I've been coping with stress via too much hard livin', and now my health is paying the price. So please be patient with me the next couple of days as I try to take it as easy as I can and recover so that my adaptive immune system can succeed where the innate system failed at controlling infection and viral spread. Hopefully I'll be back in full Razzified effect in 48-72 hours once my B and T cells drop some effector function all over this bitch-ass acute infection.

In the meantime, you can wish for my speedy recovery (or, if you're a Razzy Hater, my rapid decline and excruciatingly painful death) on the comments page. Or, if you're really bored, you can go meet other Razzyphiles in the hottest internet personality fan club group on Facebook. Seriously, only 999,950 more people need to join before it becomes more popular than those "Six Degrees of Separation-The Experiment" or "One Million Strong for Barack Obama" groups. Everybody's doing it! Don't be the last one to get on this train.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:29 AM 8 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: SNOOZE


Name: the snooze button on my alarm clock

DOB: N/A

Occupation: providing nine more minutes of blissful sleep

Hometown: a factory in Malaysia

Current residence: my bedside table

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: This is going to be a short one today, because I am sick. Not sick in the head as certain Ivy League gossip websites have suggested, but good, old-fashioned, infected with a respiratory virus sick. These past few weeks of stress and subsequent heavy drinking have taken their toll and I've come down with something. I knew something was up yesterday when, despite having taken a long nap Sunday afternoon and going to bed at 10:30, I couldn't drag myself out of bed until eleven and not even two Sugar Free Red Bulls and a giant coffee could wake me up. I really knew something was going on when I didn't touch the six-pack in my fridge yesterday and I could barely stay awake through "Flavor of Love" and the premiere of "The Hills," in spite of leaving work early yesterday and taking another long nap. I'm not normally much of a napper, and I commonly operate on five hours of sleep a night. When my body starts telling me that this is unacceptable and insufficient, it usually means that I'm ailing. This morning, my fatigue continues as I just hit snooze for the past three hours, and bolstering my illness theory, my sinuses and chest feel like they've been filled with wet cement, I have a pounding headache, a sore throat, and if I had a thermometer around my apartment, I'm positive that it would verify that I am indeed febrile.

I'd take the day off, except I have some business in the old laboratory to attend to that just can't wait. Unfortunately, mice and cell lines don't take sick days. However, I want to just hit snooze indefinitely and remain horizontal. Grad school sucks.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:07 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, March 24, 2008

 

Hoes make it rain on McCain

A bunch of fat chicks were out shopping for new muumuus at Lane Bryant and got to talking about how they could help out their favorite candidate, John McCain.  Unfortunately, they came up with the worst idea ever: make a YouTube video that would "outdo" the one Obama Girl made.  There's just one problem: Obama Girl was hot in an Eliot Spitzer-servicing prostitute kind of way, and these BBWs look like a pod of whales (one of which is a Depends-wearing grandma) in hideous stretch pants.

Actually, there are two problems.  The second is that they relied on "It's Raining Men," aka # 4 on this list of the gayest songs ever, for inspiration.  "It's Raining McCain" does little in the way of conjuring up images which aren't nauseating.  I'm already voting for McCain, but if I were undecided, trust that a woman with three chins refreshingly splashing her face with John McCains wouldn't sway me into his camp. I couldn't even enjoy the sexy footage of young Vietnam-era McCain because of these trolls shimmying their cellulite in front of his American hero hotness. "I'm gonna go out and get myself absolutely JOHN MCCAIN!"?!?! PLEASE no more follow-up videos.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:12 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

An Easter miracle

Yesterday evening I was very excited to see that "Rock of Love 2" FINALLY had some action worth watching since the departure of the incomparable cartoonish French low-budget gonzo porn slut Angelique.  Much like Christ before her, HEATHER returned from the grave with her giant hair, giant silicone boobs, and giant collection of garish sideless spandex stripper dresses from the skank clearance bin at Forever 21.  Also unlike Jesus, instead of coming to redeem mankind's sins, Heather is coming to bring the drama in the form of drunken whorishness.  


In case you didn't watch the original "Rock of Love," Heather was one of the final two hard-livin' slags competing for the affections of Poison lead singer Bret Michaels.  She is a thirty-two year old stripper renowned for her acrobatic polework, revealing that she had engaged in group sex with Bret and the nefarious Lacey by screaming "I watched you suck his dick, bitch!," and getting "Bret" tattooed on the back of her neck.  Heather is hard-livin' even as far as hard-livin' slags go. 

Last night, Heather announced her arrival on "Rock of Love 2" by shouting, "I hope you brought your extra liver, bitches!" She was there to dig up dirt on the girls to assist with Bret's elimination, and wasted no time getting everyone to take body shots.  That was followed by a truth or dare game involving naked cartwheel, inquiries as to whether or not certain girls had been "fucked in the ass," and lots of crying.  Unfortunately, one of the girls tried a little too hard to impress Heather with her drinking, and this wound up happening:

All in all, I was pleased to finally see an entertaining episode of "Rock of Love 2."  This season is boring and it needs some Heather spice.  The producers seem to realize this because thankfully, next week Heather is going to Vegas with Bret and the remaining girls to "party like a rock star."  They'll probably watch a lame Bret Michaels concert in the basement lounge of the Hard Rock or wherever, get shitfaced, and either a vicious catfight or a wasted threesome will ensue.  They need to keep Heather on for the rest of the show.

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:38 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

2008's Douchiest Off-Season Quarterback in the NFL

With all the March Madness basketball craziness going on, it seems people have forgotten about the greatest sport ever: professional football (and NO, I'm not talking about soccer).  While everyone is going off about how fucked their brackets are (and I am annoyed because I stupidly forgot to get involved in all of this due to my own self-preoccupation), nobody has been paying attention to what NFL stars do best in the off-season: act like total idiots.  In the 2007 off-season, for example, Tom Brady dumped his pregnant girlfriend, Pac-Man Jones developed a second career as a TNA wrestler after making it rain on his hoes and getting a season-long suspension from the NFL, and Matt Leinart contracted herpes from Paris Hilton.  In 2008, the douchebaggery continues, and what better way to get stoked for the upcoming NFL draft than to point out the biggest tool in the entire shed.  

Amazingly, I am not bestowing this honor upon Tom Brady or Peyton Manning.  Brady and Big Brother Manning are undoubtedly a pair of insufferably annoying douchebags, but they both have at least one thing I can respect.  Tom Brady is fucking a supermodel and Peyton Manning has mercifully toned down his assaults on my sanity via MasterCard commercials.  Only one other quarterback manages to be a complete putz without mitigating his utter reprehensibility via one remotely laudable act, and that is Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo.

Let's just go over Tony Romo's dumbassery quickly:
1. He plays for the Dallas Cowboys, assuredly one of the NFL's most perennially hateworthy teams
2. He stuck his dick in Carrie Underwood
3. He is currently sticking his dick into Jessica Simpson
4. He spends his bye weeks sticking his dick into Jessica Simpson
5. He got his jersey made in PINK for Jessica Simpson to wear at Cowboys games
6. He gets nervous and fucks up BAD when his girlfriend is in Texas Stadium
7. His name reminds me of rib restaurants, which makes me hungry for ribs, which then makes me disappointed when I don't immediately get to eat ribs
8. He fucks up bad in clutch situations (although this worked out fabulously for the Seahawks in the NFC divisional playoffs two seasons ago when he fumbled the ball while holding during a field goal attempt with a minute left in the game)
9.  He looks like he's always thinking REALLY hard when asked questions like, "Are you going to throw to T.O. this game?" DUH, stupidhead!
10.  He plays for the Dallas Cowboys (again...that deserves to be repeated because the Cowboys just suck and I hate them).

Any doubts I had that Romo might be outdouched by Brady or one of the brothers Manning were allayed by this photograph of Romo and his skank at a Dallas Mavericks game:


Not only did the Mavs lose, proving that Tony Romo and Jessica Simpson are a perennially lethal combination for any Texas sports team, but let's just take a gander at Tony's outfit.  His ass wasn't even born when the Led Zepellin World Tour advertised on his shirt occurred, and he's wearing distressed jeans, a damn white baseball cap, and a CHAIN!  I guess you can take the dipshit drunken date-rapist out of the frathouse, but you can't take the frathouse out of the dipshit drunken date-rapist.  I can just hear the underlying sound of his Neanderthal-esque "wooo-hooo-ing" through this photo.

I can't wait until football season starts again so that I can watch this douche spend the season getting thoroughly owned by every team he faces.

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:03 AM 3 Comments Links to this post
 

Heads up to the Kells legal team

Last week, I received the following e-mail:
From: Morrissey'sHair, Esq. (mhair@brokemotherfuckersllp.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

Dude,
This morning while getting ready for work I was listening to Kells and a disturbing thought dawned on me: How on Earth can Kells enjoy his constitutional right to a fair and impartial jury of his peers when he is The World's Greatest? Seems that by definition, The World's Greatest is peerless; thus, any jury empaneled won't meet Constitutional muster. I can't believe his attorney hasn't brought this issue to the court's attention!
It's a refreshing change to contemplate someone else's legal drama besides my own, and I am particularly concerned with Robert Sylvester Kelly's legal woes. I may be one of the only people in America who believes steadfastly in his innocence, or at least the strength of his defense case.  How can a man who looks so snappy in courthouse finery be culpable in urinating on a minor?  Sha right.  Furthermore, how can the Pied Piper/R-uh/King of R&B be anything BUT The World's Greatest?

Morrissey'sHair raises an excellent point about R. Kelly's Sixth Amendment rights, and he's a real lawyer with a bar card and everything.  I'd think that in addition to arguing for his singular status as "World's Greatest", the prosecution would be hard-pressed to fill a jury with marching bands, swift winds over the country, stars up in the sky, mountain peaks on high, lights at the end of the tunnel, lions in the jungle, pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, and everything else R. Kelly purports to be in that classic song.  It's too bad Morrissey'sHair doesn't practice criminal law in Chicago because he'd have this case dismissed in a heartbeat. 

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:47 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the cast of "The Hills"


Name: Lauren Conrad, Whitney Post, Audrina Partridge, and Heidi Montag (and Brody Jenner, Spencer Pratt, and the all-time awesomest dipshit ever, Justin Bobby Brescia).

DOB: various, but all after 1985

Occupation: tightly scripted reality drama

Hometown: mostly either Laguna Beach or Malibu, California

Current residence: West Hollywood, California

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness:  I'm more than a little embarrassed to admit that I watch "The Hills" religiously.  This show is literally 30 minutes of these girls being vapid, self-centered, totally shallow, and entirely idiotic whores, but I can't tear myself away.  I'm not the only one either.  I get together every Monday with a group of girls who feel the same way, and we're all professional, educated women over the age of 25.  Our Monday night crew consists of a television news producer, a public relations representative, a clothing designer, another grad student who studies neuroscience, and myself.  We're all relatively smart and well-read and yet we can't get enough of watching LC and her entourage of cow-eyed morons slut it up at Area and Les Deux.  I know everyone is excited to see how Lauren's tenure in Paris running a Teen Vogue fashion show goes.  I imagine there's going to be a lot of Whitney starting off each episode with her usual "so...what's going on?", cuing LC to spending more time worrying about who Brody Jenner is banging back home in the Golden State than actually bringing coffee to the bigwigs at Teen Vogue's Paris office.

Supposedly this season we'll also get to see the return of Justin Bobby, who will undoubtedly sit around belching, being unkempt, and saying completely rude shit to everyone around him.  That in turn will mean there will be plenty of footage of Audrina looking completely confused as she tries to wrap her mind around the fact that Justin Bobby is the world's biggest asshole (a concept she has yet to fully grasp).  Audrina may be the dumbest human being in the world.  I think that if you got too close to her, you would hear that crashing surf sound that you hear when you press your ear to a seashell.  It's strangely fascinating watching someone that abysmally stupid try to manage scripted dialogue of her handling her business.  Speaking of stupidity, I'm sure that Spencer and Heidi will bring their asinine relationship drama to a whole new level of retarded, as well.  Good times.

"Hills" to the yes!

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:21 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Winona Ryder


Name: Winona Laura Horowitz

DOB: October 29, 1971

Occupation: actress, petty thief

Hometown: Olmstead County, Minnesota

Current residence: Hollywood, California

Douchebaggery: This is really last week's news, but it seems Winona Ryder got in trouble for shoplifting again.  However, her taste in stolen goods seems to be diminishing, as this time she got busted for stealing makeup from a CVS rather than 5 grand worth of designer crap from Saks.  She was discovered trying to get away with a bunch of drugstore lip glosses and powders.  I imagine that after seeing ANTM cycle 9 winner Saleisha dress up as the "Honey Bunches of Oats" factory lady last week during her tour of the Cover Girl plant last week during the "My Life as a Cover Girl" commercial on "America's Next Top Model," she was inspired to check out some of the Lip Shine products because they remind her of getting a "mouthful of joy.." 


Since Winona apparently continues to embrace her kleptomania, you'd think she'd be a little more savvy to the security precautions in place to ensure nobody gets a five-fingered discount on the CVS selection of Bonne Bell Lip Smackers.  Hasn't she noticed that every CVS on the planet has a set of those alarm gates you have to walk through on your way out?  Maybe she thought those were just for show, sort of like when she got busted before she was "confused" about what she was supposed to pay for and what she thought was free for the taking.  

Luckily for Winona's dumb ass, this time around she wasn't arrested.  The people at CVS just made her cough up $29.99 for the two or three compacts of Tru Blend powder foundation or whatever, then called the tabs immediately to sell the story.  Pointing out what an idiot Winona Ryder continues to be with regard to her sticky fingers is worth way more than living up to your "SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED" warning signs.  Winona needs to get more into drugs or dangerous sex for her thrill-seeking, because this shoplifting thing is getting more tired than the movies she's been in lately.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:41 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Sunday, March 23, 2008

 

Christ is risen like a honey first thing in the morning

Happy Jesus Resurrection Day, everyone!  My Easter wasn't as great as last year's, in which I missed church because I was brutally, paralyzingly hung over from LL Cool Jew's epic wedding, then I ate a Easter dinner of pepperoni pizza, beer, and pussy.  This Easter was a little more traditional.  I went to Mass, ate some bacon and eggs, and then watched some basketball and drank beers with some grad school peeps, including my go-to Catholic pals SisterChristian and G-Cat.  SisterChristian is much better at being Catholic than I am, since I'm a total CEO (Christmas-Easter only).  She even went to the Easter Vigil the night before, something I avoid like the plague on account of it being longer than an extended edition Lord of the Rings movie, and way less exciting on account of its lacking epic battles, the horse-lords of the Riddermark, or Gimli son of Gloin.  There's usually an hour and a half of random baptisms alone during the Easter Vigil, but SisterChristian isn't deterred in her quest to have a good church attendance record.  

Luckily, she's not so devout that she gets annoyed when I make wisecracks about the liturgical proceedings.  In fact, she giggles at them.  She told me that when G-Cat and I started snickering about the hymn lyrics from "Victimae Paschali Laude" (specifically, "angelicos testes") she had to determinedly look away to avoid laughing uncontrollably through the renewal of baptismal vows.  She's perfected the skill of averting her gaze at religious events, because she spent some of her childhood in the Philippines, where they actually crucify people to celebrate Holy Week.  I think she's glad to be able to look away to avoid laughing about her church buddies' sacrilegious commentary rather than seeing the horrifying sight of some extremely pious volunteer getting nailed to a cross.  When G-Cat started making jokes about how the priest sprinkled us with holy water with what appeared to be a bunch of arugula and I stage-whispered "IT BURNS!" upon getting splashed, she couldn't hold back any longer.  Mass was a rollicking good time.

I need to make irreverent jokes during church to keep it fresh and fun.  Every year it's pretty much the same story: Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb while it's still dark to spray JC's body with spices or something, the tomb's empty, and the VIP apostles stand around scratching their heads being amazed.  I wish the Catholics would mix it up once in awhile with something besides John 20: 1-9.  For example, this interpretation of Christ's resurrection:



Jesus pulling himself off the cross to kick some ass is certainly more compelling than this "the tomb is empty" story.  St. John really should have written his gospel as a comic book.

Anyway, happy Easter!  Alle-fucking-lulia!  Christ is risen!  WOOOO HOOOO!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:59 PM 3 Comments Links to this post

Saturday, March 22, 2008

 

Razzy Madness

The last few weeks I've been so caught up in my legal drama (which has been discussed at length) and labwork (which has not, because nobody wants to read about boring science) that I totally forgot to make brackets or join a pool or make foolish wagers or anything to celebrate March Madness.  Perhaps, as certain other website authors have suggested, I am indeed "batshit crazy," because the voices in my head were telling me that I'm black, handsome, I sing, plus I'm rich, and I'm a flirt.  Oh wait, that was the R. Kelly jam I was rocking out to alleviate my stress.  Whatever.  

I'm also batshit crazy because I not only have naked pictures of myself on the internets, wear revealing Halloween costumes, replace actual content with either aforementioned naked pictures of myself or links to old posts on days when I'm feeling lazy, and think I could run a better presidential campaign than Hillary Clinton, but I would have picked Gonzaga to go all the way (as usual) and they already went down in the first round (also as usual) like me on hot honeys who reciprocate.  I think there are few indications of insanity more obvious than consistently picking a team infamous for failing to meet expectations and making an early exit from the tournament just because a girl loves Catholics from the P-N-Dub and because Casey Calvary, Gonzaga's center circa 1999, went to her high school.  Batshit crazy, indeed.

Anyway, since it's now too late to get my NCAA basketball on now that my life has calmed down, I just decided to celebrate my lunacy with a different set of tournament brackets.  It's RAZZY MADNESS!  Madness because I'm crazy...get it?   It's time to pit great achievements in Razzification against one another in the ultimate display of extremely narcissistic batshit crazy useless bullshit.  Behold, the brackets of awesomeness:

There will be some big upsets in this tourney (ie: Captain Sigurd Hansen declaring me the mighty F/V Northwestern's .1 fan on his MySpace blog destroying three legendary Razzified contenders), some expected victories (ie: my dogs, my tits, and my poisons of choice going to the Final Four), and some close ones (ie: hot girl-on-girl barely squeaking past Bev Niner, undoubtedly in an overtime buzzer-beater), but I don't think anyone will be surprised to see that I am picking my breasts to ultimately reign supreme.  They are, after all, the primary piece of evidence as to my mental derangement.  Said craziness is the source from whence all my useless bullshit springs, so naturally the tits will take it.  Trust.  So if you'll excuse me, I have to go provide some consolation to Johnnie Walker Black and Heineken for their impending defeat at the hands of the victorious breasts by drinking large quantities of both.

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:30 PM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, March 21, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: J-Sexy...AGAIN


RAZZY Note:  This isn't J-Sexy.  She doesn't want her picture floating around too much on the internets, so I put up this picture of the original Queen of the Dancehall, Lady Saw, instead.  J-Sexy is way better looking than Lady Saw, but like her, she is black and beautiful, pink and fruitiful.

Name: J-Sexy

DOB: 1981

Occupation: getting bitch-slapped by poliovirus 2A protease, saying "mmm-mmm-mmm" disapprovingly, making cheap jokes about my age (ie: her favorite nickname for me is "Oldilocks"), being my platonic life partner, chillaxing

Hometown: Kingston, Jamaica

Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today is my platonic life partner's department seminar, and she's unhappy with it. Both of us are unhappy in general with the way our graduate thesis projects have progressed, and nothing brings out dissatisfaction with your data like department seminar. Yesterday, we were talking about ways to spice it up. In the past, J-Sexy has put her Power Point slides on brightly colored backgrounds to add some cheer. This year, she was initially much more pessimistic about the whole thing, and skipped the neon-yellow background. However, yesterday, she changed her tune and decided that she would like to have some entrance music like that used to great effect in sports entertainment. Our lab speculated that it would really add a lot to her presentation to start it off with "IF YOU SMELLLLLL WHAT J-SEXY. IS COOKIN'!" followed by some pyrotechnics, The Rock's theme music, and J-Sexy strutting out to raise the People's Eyebrow at whatever members of our department showed up. I even offered to wear a slutty outfit and come out with her as her "manager," and hit any faculty members not paying close enough attention to her awesome data in the back with a folding chair.

Unfortunately, I expect she'll have scrapped those plans after thinking about it more carefully. So I'll just say that I am certain she'll kick ass and we'll all be impressed with her antagonism of the poliovirus interferon antagonist. She's a hot piece, an insanely talented scientist, a great cook, a sharp mind, and the best platonic life partner a girl could ask for. Plus, she's a member of the greatest group in the history of Facebook. I LOVE YOU, J-SEXY!

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:15 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Jesus Christ

RAZZY Note: I know these pictures are of every family's favorite antisemitic Easter snuff film, The Passion of the Caviezel, but none of the other Jesus pictures appearing in a Google search for "Jesus" were sufficiently suffering-Christy for my taste. In that movie, Jesus got the fuck scourged out of him for like 45 minutes straight, and nothing really says "Good Friday" like Mel "Sugar Tits" Gibson directing religious torture porn that makes Hostel look like an episode of the Care Bears cartoon.  

Name: Jesus of Nazareth

DOB: per the Jesuits at my high school, sometime in the spring of 4 B.C. I know it should be December 25th, 0 A.D., but apparently someone fucked up over in the world's Christian calendar department. And December 25 was the day of some existing Roman pagan festival, so it was just convenient to change that to Christmas.

Occupation: the Christ AKA Lamb of God, Son of God, Son of Man, Prince of Peace, Wonderful Counselor, Good Shepherd, King of Kings, Paschal Lamb, Suffering Servant, the Messiah for us Christians anyway, King of the Jews (per himself and some snarky Romans with gallows humor), carpenter, professional resurrectee

Hometown: Nazareth via a stable in Bethlehem, Israel

Current residence: heaven, apparently on his ass at the right hand of the Father

Douchebaggery: I have half a pepperoni pizza in the fridge that really badly wants to be my breakfast.  I mean I went to get my morning Sugar-Free Red Bull and I could almost hear that delicious pizza calling me to eat it.  Unfortunately, Jesus had to go and get his dumb ass crucified, thus making today Good Friday and making it so that I can't eat breakfast at all! 

I realize that I'm a pretty lousy Catholic otherwise, what with all the harlotry and the birth control pill-taking and the abortion-having and the carpet-munching.  In fact, the Pope just revised the Seven Deadly Sins to be more modern, which means I'm doubly screwed. In addition to regularly violating a whole shitload of the old ones (particularly pride, lust, wrath, sloth, and gluttony), I now violate most of the new ones as well (failure to recycle, human rights violations aka making my uterus as inhospitable to babies as possible and evicting any that take up residence there, genetic manipulation of mice, HeLa and 293T cells, and E. coli, and drug use--I mean, ALCOHOL use).  Since according to the Vatican's standards I've already got a first class ticket to eternal damnation, I try to be pious where I can in hopes that my efforts will get me to a nicer part of hell.  I'd way rather be in the orgy part of hell than the part where all those soul-eating Bosch demons live.  

Since I've failed miserably at my Lenten vow (no cigarettes) and I've sucked at the no-meat-on-Fridays thing (a couple weeks ago I forgot and ate a huge plate of pork mofongo before I remembered that it was a Lenten Friday and thus forbade consumption of chicharron de cerdo), I figure that I can at least try to behave on Good Friday.  According to the Catholic church, this means at minimum not eating meat, and ideally not eating at all.  According to the Razzian Order of Catholics (membership: 1, namely me),  this means not eating until 3 p.m., which is supposedly when JC gave his final shout out to God and croaked.  After that, I figure there's no sense in starving for the next couple days waiting for him to rise from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, so bring on the fish tacos.

Of course I love my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ as he was eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light From Light, true God from true God, begotten not made, one in being with the Father, etc.  I actually do believe in the whole Christian narrative, and if I'm getting a Get-Out-of-Hell Free Card, it'll be because of Jesus dying for my myriad sins.  Besides, I can't hate a deity capable of turning water into wine with such an obvious fondness for hanging out with and getting his toes massaged by wanton sluts, whores, and adulteresses.  However, I don't understand why Jesus had to go through all this crucifixion hullabaloo.  Wouldn't it have been easier to just spend his golden years effing the shit out of Mary Magdalene and the other hookers hanging around him and antagonizing the Jewish elders, feasting on his unlimited loaves-and-fishes buffet, die peacefully as Judea's most renowned carpenter-turned-traveling evangelist, and then rise again?  That would make things a lot easier for everyone, especially Jesus, while still managing to fulfill all those prophecies about his Messianic resurrection.  It's not like Jesus HAD to do anything involving getting nailed to a cross by Pontius Pilate's legionnaires after a rough sesh with the cat o' nine tails and a laborious parade through the streets of Jerusalem.  He's Jesus!  He's GOD!  He can do whatever the fuck he wants.  But NO, he's got to do things the hard way, and now so do all of those of us who get our Roman popery on.  Three p.m. cannot come fast enough.  I'm starving.

Anyway, happy Jesus Death Day, everyone!  I hope you're better at piety than me, because I think I may have just earned damnation by douchebagging my Lord and Savior.  Oh well.  So goes my sinful life.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:00 AM 4 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, March 20, 2008

 

My future boyfriends

Last year, Floyd Sr., patriarch of a clan of petty criminals and (per my objective judgment) methamphetamine manufacturers/distributors/addicts, was arrested for crimes against humanity in central Florida.  I'm not sure what those crimes were, but I'm willing to bet it involved either possession/sale of drugs, assault in the context of a bar brawl, public intoxication, or domestic battery.  Some other time, Justin, one of his eight sons was arrested for a separate but undoubtedly similar offense.  These fine fellows were thus given a free pictures for their touching family photo album at the state's expense:
Ah, forehead tattoos.  What a treasured tradition those Bebees have cultivated within their family.  They're like a clan of redneck Maori.  According to The Smoking Gun, Floyd, Sr. also has the words "Got-R-Did" on the back of his head to bookend the old thinking muscle with some class.  Apparently to one-up his old man, Justin also has the words "Fuck" and "You" tatted on his eyelids, the aggressive white trash tweaker version of that Smith College girl who writes "Love" and "You" on her eyelids to flash at choice moments (such as when he's trying to spell "neolithic") during Professor Henry "Indiana" Jones's archaeology class in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The Bebee gentlemen (who apparently work in the "odd jobs" industry) are truly refined gentlemen, and I wish they would move to Puyallup.  Not only could I recommend an excellent local criminal defense attorney to them (obviously as necessary to the Bebees as my parents' financial planner is to them), they would have no problem getting employment as either nomadic handymen or tweak dealers, and would undoubtedly rapidly rise to the upper echelons of Puyallup trailer park society.  They'd be the toast of Neener's, Nifty's Fifties, Bumpy's, the Roadhouse, Muggs and Juggs, the VFW club, or any of the other local social clubs.  Pity they're stuck in Florida, because Puyallup could really benefit from a couple of sophisticated gentlemen like these two.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:33 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: members of the Razzyphiles Facebook group


Name: various (but special shout-out to ElCyd for creating the group)

DOB: various

Occupation: useless bullshit connoisseurs, hot-ass pieces, lovers of yours truly

Hometown: various

Current residence: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=25477690607&ref=mf

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Yesterday I was in a dark and depressed mood (and I was horribly hung over from drinking my problems temporarily away the night before), and I spent much of the day conferring (Gchatting) with the Razzy.org Office of General Counsel. At one point, I was on the Gchat horn with ElCyd, and after a lengthy conversation about legal matters, she changed the subject to cheer me up:
ElCyd: i think we should start a razzyphiles facebook group
Razzy: HELL YES!
Razzy: that turned my frown upside down
ElCyd: YES!
ElCyd: who doesn't want to be a razzyphile?
Razzy: FOR REAL
ElCyd: holler at me if you want to chat more
ElCyd: ima make this razzy group
ElCyd: lates
Razzy: HOT
(10 minutes later)
ElCyd: i've appointed myself Razzificator
ElCyd: because it's so GWBush-like
Razzy: NICE
Razzy: i love it
Razzy: wait, is it on facebook yet?
Razzy: because i'm obvi joining immediately
ElCyd: yes
ElCyd: i sent you an invitation
ElCyd: (duh)
Razzy: KICK ASS
ElCyd: hell yeah.
Razzy: dude i love it
Razzy: this has turned a shitty day into a great one! 
Anyway, ElCyd managed to hook me up with two things I needed: lawyerly advice and a much-needed ego stroking. I am pleased to say that with regard to the latter, there are now almost 30 official card-carrying Razzyphiles...and I don't personally know at least 10 of them!  In fact, when I joined my own fan club, there were already four other members, and I had joined 5 minutes after its creation!  That rules so hard.

Razzyphiles are the hotness in my book (duh), as in addition to loving me, they are willing to sign up for "useless bullshit" as one of their main "Beliefs and Causes."  That is a belief and cause I respect and have devoted my extracurricular life to, and I salute you all for being insanely smart, clever, sensible, maddeningly sexy, and generally rocking harder than a Judas Priest concert circa 1986.  I love you guys.  For serious, people.  I really, really, REALLY do, and I thank you from the bottom of my tar-filled, shriveled Grinch heart for your reading what I put a lot of time and effort into, telling me what you think, and lining up behind me in support.  Oh, and your worshipful adoration.  That rules too.  

Oh, yeah, and if you haven't joined yet, what's your problem?  Don't you want to be one of the (30) cool kids on Facebook?  I mean, if you're on MySpace instead, let me remind you that it's not 2005 anymore. Facebook is what all the youngsters are doing these days on the social networkity internets, so get with the times.  And make your Razzyphile status official by joining the group!  YEAH!

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:52 AM 4 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: molecular gastronomists


Name: on "Top Chef," it's season 2 contestant Marcel, season 4 contestant Andrew, and guest judge Wylie Dufresne

DOB: various

Occupation: "molecular gastronomists"

Hometown: various

Current residence: various

Douchebaggery: I love the Bravo show "Top Chef" for a variety of reasons. I love food, and there's always all sorts of mouthwatering deliciousness being made and served on this show. Also, I love bitchy reality competition judges, and I think that "Top Chef" may actually have the bitchiest. Tom Colicchio, the head judge, makes Michael Kors from "Project Runway" look like a cuddly teddy bear in comparison. Even when Tom Colicchio eats something executed flawlessly, he'll still complain that he didn't like the garnish, the portion size, or the temperature of the plate. Plus, it is hosted by model/Salman Rushdie's ex-wife/"actress" ("actress" in quotes because from what I can tell her greatest role was a guest spot on "Star Trek: Enterprise") Padma Lakshmi, and she is both a hot piece and a TOTAL bitch. Every time she eats something she doesn't like, she looks like she's about to puke and will waste no time in telling the unfortunate chef so. Finally, I love overly dramatic contestants, and the people competing on "Top Chef" are even more catty than the designers on "Project Runway."

However, there is one particular type of chef on this show that drives me crazy. Specifically, anyone who calls himself a "molecular gastronomist." These are chefs who incorporate "science" into their cooking (translation: they use chemical thickening agents and specialized blenders). Usually this also means they spend a lot of time making foams and weird gelatinous creations. Marcel from season two, an annoying, pompous asshole who couldn't make a dish without crowning it with some kind of gross espuma, made sure that he added to his scientastic credibility by using the term "molecular gastronomist" to describe himself whenever possible. One time he made this tomato foam that looked like someone had vomited V8 juice all over the piece of salmon he was serving and acted like he had created ambrosia fit for the gods of Olympus.  This season, Andrew has already busted out his suitcase full of xanthan gum to make nasty high-tech Jello molds with, and I can only pray that the judges' intolerance for stupid posturing sends him and his squid ink gelees packing before he can piss me off by talking about agar like it's some kind of space age miracle polymer (it's a natural seaweed extract that microbiologists have been using since the 19th century).  

Even worse, these molecular gastronomy types always have terrible style befitting their trappings of science-based pretentiousness.  Marcel looks like he spends most of his time trying to make his hair look like a baked Alaska and trimming his soul patch (ew) like a radish rose, Andrew seems like he should be living under a freeway overpass somewhere and begging for change on the grounds that he's a homeless veteran, and Wylie Dufresne is one of those hideously ugly people who apparently thought mutton chop sideburns would improve his weak-chinned appearance.  Clearly, these dorks got into molecular gastronomy to sex them up via pseudointellect.  The hot contestants on "Top Chef" (ie: Harold from season 1, Sam and Elia from season 2, Brian, Tre, and Casey from season 3, etc.) never bother with fancying up their cooking, and in fact are deeply suspicious of the molecular gastronomists' chemistry sets.  As they don't have to make up for hideous ugliness, they can just concentrate on making tasty food.  I don't think the espuma makes the filet, and all this blustering about "molecular gastronomy" sounds like a whole lot of overcompensation for lackluster basic culinary skills and a limited roster of actual sexual partners.  Losers.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:08 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

 

Razzyphiles: the Facebook group

In addition to providing me with excellent (and free) legal advice, hilarious inside information on her hometown homo-hater Rev. Fred Phelps, and generally being a hot piece, ElCyd just ran even further up the Razzyphile ranks by starting a RAZZYPHILES FACEBOOK GROUP!!!!

She also did this on a day when I needed it most, as I have been enveloped in a dark cloud of positively un-Razzified energy all day long, and have spent much of my day corresponding with various attorney types and feeling cranky.  I'm still convinced that I am absolutely in the clear and everything is going to be A-okay (sorry to disappoint Anonymous the Armchair Lawyer who continually chimes in with predictions of doom for myself) with regard to my legal drama, but nonetheless, this turned my frown upside down.

So obviously, you should all go out and join.  Except Razzy Haters, who are welcome to stay put and continue opining on my being (old/ugly/fat/badly coiffed/stupid/boring/skanky/legally fucked over/inept/lame/pathetic/insert other negative descriptor of choice here) and generally rejoicing in my misery and unhappiness on the comment pages.  I have my own Facebook group!  WIth 16 people in it.  Including at least ONE who I don't even know!  That totally rules.

What are you waiting for?  Go make your Razzyphiliac status totally official and join my Facebook fan club NOW.  

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# posted by Razzy @ 3:07 PM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Quit your bitching!

In light of suggestions that some Razzyphiles aren't wild about links to my old posts on days when I just don't have the energy or inspiration to craft novel useless bullshit up to my high and exacting standards, here's an alternative placeholder for actual material: BARE BREASTS (and bad hair).  Plus my face looks busted in this picture, so Razzy Haters can have fun with this too.
I'm going to now work on fixing my problems and getting my mind right so I don't continue to disappoint.
  
XOBJBS,
Razzy

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:19 AM 3 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Whatever: Sorry, guys

So my legal drama continues and I am feeling pretty shitty today. I'm not even going to try to be funny, because I am feeling positively miserable for a variety of reasons that undoubtedly I'll tell you all about soon enough. I even cried yesterday. In front of people. In the Gospel of Razzy, that's a mortal fucking sin. So to make up for the fact that I can't possibly come up with anything creative or amusing today, I'll instead reflect back on happier times when I actually succeeded at doing so.

Breaking up is hard to do, but rejecting assholes is easy The font of ranting from whence all my current legal drama sprang

VD BS is so romantic It just wouldn't be right not to include at least ONE posting about anal sex.

Blame it on Benedixteen Man, Blame It on Rio was an awesomely ridiculous movie. Almost as ridiculous as the Pope. But infinitely more awesome.

More dumbfuckery on the Lower East Side Judging by the number of Google Image hits this post gets, there's a lot of you who really want to see Pete Wentz jerking it to a Morrissey poster

Cheaters never prosper unless you are dumb enough to let them Good times fucking my former high school classmates in Tacoma

Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that. Nothing turns my frown upside down like a little REAL TALK. See, girl.

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Chris Hansen SO. HOT.

Razzy v. Rick Friar: Hilarity will likely ensue Hearken back to happier times when haters just sent me stupid e-mail and didn't resort to attorneys and threats of litigation (and hilariously, this comes up in a Technorati search for "nerd rage" along with posts called things like "How to totally get your way in World of Warcraft" and "Here I am...rock you like a geeky nerd"). BONUS: titty pictures.

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Taylor Swift I'm throwing HotLawyer a bone for being the total helpful hotness

Important Details Women's magazines totally suck.

I'll be back tomorrow in better spirits. Trust.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:33 AM 4 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Teddy Pedersen


Name: Theodore Pedersen

DOB: ???

Occupation: former political aide/chauffeur, hot bisexual slut

Hometown: ???

Current residence: somewhere in New Jersey?

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Since depraved governors are all the rage these days, some guys over at the Newark Star-Ledger and the always classy and sophisticated New York Post decided to catch up with former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey, who infamously resigned in 2004 after admitting to an affair with a male aide. They talked to his soon-to-be ex-wife Dina Matos McGreevey, who said she was "blindsided" by her husband's revelation that he was "a gay American."

This comment didn't sit well with Teddy Pedersen, who promptly came forward to tell the press about his involvement in what the McGreevey's called "the Friday Night Special." Basically, every Friday night for two years, they'd get a swanky motel room off the turnpike and spend the evening having hot MMF three-ways. Presumably, since Dina witnessed firsthand her husband being Teddy's sloppy bottom, there's no way she could have been "blindsided" when discovering that her beloved husband was getting some sausage on the side.

Even better, former Governor McGreevey confirmed that this is indeed true! I guess now that he's fully out cruising for cock in various Chelsea bar and restaurant-type places, he doesn't give a fuck if people know Teddy took turns nailing him and Dina. As always, the geniuses at the Post have summarized this in the most erudite and learned manner possible (and trust this would have been the cover if not for the fact that the Post broke a story that our new blind Governor Paterson apparently also was screwing around on his wife...what is with these horndog Tri-State governors???):

I have to applaud Teddy for coming forward just to call Dina out for being dishonest about what a perv she really is. He's the kind of guy who's like, "yeah, the governor and I ran a train on his wife and then sucked each other's dicks...SO FUCKING WHAT? Y'all haters can kiss my hot governor-penetrated ass!" What a player-ass pimp. You go, Teddy Bend His Ass Down.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:29 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: BALB/c mice


Name: BALB/c mice

DOB: the strain originated when Halsey Bagg purchased a pair of albino mice from a mouse dealer in Ohio in 1913

Occupation: I'd say "guinea pigs," but since they're mice, I'll say "experimental subjects"

Hometown: Memorial Hospital, New York via Ohio

Current residence: my lab's infrequently used chemical fume hood so J-Sexy and SisterChristian won't bitch about my rodents stinking up the lab

Douchebaggery: No matter what a grad student works on, whether it be yeast, worms, flies, cells, viruses, bacteria, mice, rats, monkeys, or whatever else, there's one thing that everyone has to do which is the scourge of our existence: a timecourse experiment. This involves setting up whatever you're doing and taking samples at different times afterward, usually as inconveniently as possible. In my case, this means infecting mice with virus and dissecting out their respiratory tracts, then making smoothies out of them with my trusty power tissue homogenizer. It's the time of my life. There's nothing more entertaining and delightful than spending a very long day whipping up infected tracheal homogenates. It's better than sex. It's...also apparently opposite day.

I had to get up this morning at 4:30 a.m. to start an epic experiment involving killing the fuck out of humanely sacrificing hordes of albino mice over a twelve-hour timecourse. That means that I not only got to work at 5:30, I get to stay until 8 or however long it takes me to lay waste to a horde of BALB/c mice. AWESOME! There's nothing like being in lab for sixteen hours. This place is paradise. The only way today could get any better is for Rxxx Sxxxxxx to show up and scream at/sexually harass me.

I shouldn't complain too much because this was the lot I cast when I signed up to do mousework in a virology lab. Lengthy timecourses are part of the package. When I get this experiment to work and can demonstrate that rhinovirus is growing in my mice, I will get to write a banging first-author paper and graduate. However, I'm seriously annoyed because I could have been working on this experiment months ago if it weren't for the stupid mice. My mice are housed in what's called a barrier facility. This means that there are certain procedures and controls in place to prevent outbreaks of mouse diseases. Obviously, when you have thousands of mice all living in close proximity, epidemics can be devastating. Unfortunately, my stupid mice decided to go and get mouse hepatitis virus anyway because some dipshit wasn't following barrier protocol, and I had to stop breeding them for three months to clear out the epidemic. While this wasn't ALL bad (I got some face time with this hot veterinarian, and spent it dropping sexy virus talk all over his fine ass), it really set my work back. Then, when I begged the hot DVM to let me resume breeding and he grudgingly gave me permission, my mice were all old and not at the height of fecundity. Mice only reproduce until they're about a year old, and many of my breeding pairs were eight or nine months old, so the females were disinterested in the old, fat males they were caged with. The few pairs who still apparently had an active sex life produced small litters. I had to use what remained of my young, virile, experiment-worthy mice to set up new breeding cages, thus making me wait another few weeks for sires to rape the dams in estrus and produce some pups for me to experiment on.

Finally, after a month of trying to get my mice to get down and get pregs and not eat their young, I managed to scrounge enough mice together to do half of this lousy experiment. Hopefully enough of the recently born mice will avoid consumption by their mothers long enough to be weaned and participate in the other half of this experiment next week. With my luck, there will probably be an outbreak of mousepox in the barrier and all my mousework will be delayed another six months. I swear these bastards are conspiring to keep me in grad school via epidemics of every disease EXCEPT human rhinovirus and a refusal to reproduce like the rodents with nothing better to do that they are. It's pretty sad that I'm being outwitted by a strain of witless vermin inbred via twenty-six generations of brother-sister mating. Pretty sad, indeed.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:27 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, March 17, 2008

 

Erin go Bragh Humbug

I totally forgot that it was St. Patrick's Day until I got to work and everyone was like, "Where are you going drinking for St. Patty's Day tonight?"  I roll my eyes and responded with a bitchy "NOWHERE."  This is partly because I have to get up at 4:30 a.m. to start a really long experiment tomorrow, and partly because St. Patrick's Day just annoys me.

There was a time when I thought St. Patrick's Day was a great excuse to get loaded and wear my grandfather's old "Erin go bragh" pin.  Unfortunately, I got loaded one too many times on Irish car bombs and Jameson shots, lost my late grandfather's treasured "Erin go bragh" pin, and realized that I actually hate St. Patrick's Day.  I don't like wearing green, I really don't like people thinking that they have license to pinch me for not doing so, drinking Guinness makes me feel like I just consumed a seven course meal, corned beef and cabbage sucks, and bars are nightmarishly crowded and annoying on St. Patty's.  Irish drinking music is crappy, leprechauns are only cool if they creatively kill people after delivering corny puns and limericks, and the absolute worst type of drunks come out to guzzle on St. Patrick's Day.  They should rename St. Pat's "amateur night for alcoholics," because every two-beer queer in America with a speck of Irish heritage is out vomiting Guinness and starting fights.

My friend HotLawyer says you should always go to a Mexican joint on St. Pat's and an Irish bar on Cinco de Mayo, because these two nights are so notorious for drawing out every dilettante drunkard in the area to annoy the real alcoholics with.  I wholeheartedly agree, because every time I've found myself in an Irish bar on this Catholic feast day, I've been getting green beer spilled on my tits by novice lushes who haven't had a drink since New Year's Eve (another night that brings out the baby drinkers in force), and thus get staggeringly drunk before 10 o'clock.  I get jostled, and thanks to the proliferation of incompetent boozehounds, it takes forever to get to the bar and get a damn drink.  Since my alcoholism is at an extremely advanced expert level, it makes me decidedly cranky when I get thirsty between cocktails because I can't get a refill in a timely manner.

Therefore, I'm not doing a damn thing to celebrate St. Patrick's Day.  I'm not wearing a speck of green, and if someone wants to try to pinch me, I'll be glad to punch them in return.  The closest thing I'm going to do to a celebration of the celibate loser who drove all the snakes from Ireland (allegedly...I don't believe that) is hit on a redheaded bartender at the NON-Irish bar I'm going to get ONE happy hour drink at with I'mNotRussianGoddammit, who is a cranky Albanian and about as far from feeling celebratory about the land of Erin as a girl can get.  Fuck my Irish heritage, fuck four-leaf clovers, fuck lesbians with Celtic armband tats, fuck green shit, fuck Notre Dame, fuck soda bread, fuck inexperienced drinkers, and FUCK ST. PATTY'S DAY!  

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:50 PM 12 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: George Lucas


Name: George Walton Lucas, Jr.

DOB: May 14, 1944

Occupation: pompous asswipe, extremely wealthy douchebag, ruiner of great franchises

Hometown: Modesto, California

Current residence: Los Angeles, California

Douchebaggery: I love the Indiana Jones movies (or at least the ones about Judeo-Christian relics and not odd rituals and the gross edible vermin that exist in remote parts of India) and I love Star Wars Episodes IV-VI, but I can't stand George Lucas. Today I read an article on CNN.com reminding me why.

Recently, George Lucas was pimping out his new computer-animated movie AND television series Star Wars: The Clone Wars, and had a few things to say about how completely destroying one of the most beloved film franchises ever made has been going.

"You've got the whole assembly line built, and then you say, 'Hey, we can make up something," George said regarding the creative process behind what undoubtedly represents yet another ass-raping of everything that originally made Star Wars great. George Lucas thinks he can replace the compelling plot from the first three movies with a lot of disjointed, nonsensical plotlines that are mainly excuses to show off his large CGI budget. Even good parts of the new movies, like where Yoda has a light saber fight with Saruman the White from LOTR, are aggravating because there's such a pervasive sense of George Lucas's masturbatory delight in his cutting edge special effects. These special effects also create a major problem in the chronology of these movies: how did technology get WORSE? In episodes I-III, there are all sorts of fancy spaceships, robot armies, clone farms, etc., and in episode IV they build a Death Star that looks like it was made out of papier mache and packing material staffed with Storm Troopers wearing outfits made out of ventilation ducting and giant Legos? What happened to all the fucking robot armies and high tech body armor?

Another problem with all the new Star Wars stuff is that it plays up all the things that sucked about the original Star Wars movies (annoying robots, Ewoks/other similarly useless species existing solely as a shameless ploy to sell toy crap to kids, incompetent assholes--ie: C3P0 and Jar Jar Binks--who create plot complications via stupidity, etc.). It's like George Lucas sat around thinking up ways to piss me off. I can just see him now, twirling his greased pompadour on his porch at Skywalker Ranch, saying, "And I think we need to include more children...yes, that's the ticket...more kids. And let's explain the origin of the Force as an intracellular rickettsial infection. That seems plausible as a source for the dualistic spiritual energy controlling the fates of the main characters of this film. And make sure all the robots make beeping noises that are as stupid as possible."

Adding insult to injury is that George Lucas talks about the new work as though it's on par with the Bible in terms of social impact, or that his heavy-handed messianic characterization of Anakin Skywalker brings new meaning to the word "profound." I liked the original Star Wars movies a lot, but not so much that I would consider converting to Jedi or believing in the Force as an actual higher power; yet to hear George Lucas talk, you'd think he came up with better shit than Jesus. In the interview I read today, he is remarkably humble, saying, "It's like 'Band of Brothers' in space, with Jedi." Amazingly, Lucas actually only compared his "Clone Wars" TV series to the Golden Globe and Emmy-winning miniseries about World War II rather than the New Testament. Maybe his ego is actually diminishing in his older age along with his volume of heavily shellacked hair.

Finally, there is pretty much no way I'm going to like anything with the name Star Wars lacking one of these three key things:

1. Lando Calrissian being totally smooth

2. Han Solo being a fine-ass scoundrel

3. Princess Leia in a gold bikini


I'm sorry, but Hayden Christensen looking like he just stepped away from a Christopher Street glory hole, Ewan MacGregor rocking softball dyke hair, and Natalie Portman dressed like a space-age geisha doesn't even remotely compare to the original hot pieces of Star Wars. In fact, it cheapens and disgraces it, and not even an entire planet full of Chewbaccas can make up for it.

Since I already got suckered into seeing episodes I-III, TRUST that after being fooled three times and shame on me, I won't be repeating history and joining all the dorks in Darth Vader masks at the multiplex for The Clone Wars. This is an assembly line that needs to be shut the fuck down.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:45 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nicholas Hadzick


Name: Nicholas Hadzick

DOB: May 1977

Occupation: fucking shit up

Hometown: Freeland, Pennsylvania

Current residence: Lancaster County Prison, Lancaster, Pennsylvania

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: One thing I've always secretly wanted to do is go on a drunken rampage of destruction. Unfortunately, I'm always too broke to justify trashing a hotel room or otherwise wantonly destroying property for the sheer gratuitous joy of breaking other peoples' stuff. About the closest I ever got was when I went to my Smith College two-year reunion. KatieScarlett and I always used to say that we were going to go to all the alumnae functions (which invariably are LAME) and interrupt the tea parties by creating a big scene, shouting "fuck this, we're OUTTA here!", and turning over a table, leaving nothing but broken Wedgwood china and snickerdoodle crumbs in our wake. Unfortunately, KatieScarlett did not go to my two-year reunion because she was stuck in art school or something, and I decided that it wouldn't be as fun wreaking havoc and getting a lifetime ban from the Smith Alumnae Association, so instead I just got laid (with a guy, which some might say is an even greater achievement in badassery at a Smith reunion than vandalism).

Anyway, thank Jesus H. Christ that there are people like Nicholas Hadzick to succeed where I have failed, so that I may live vicariously through them. Nicholas got dragged to a resort in a part of Pennsylvania where there is probably very little to do besides ogle Amish people, so he did what any decent bored human being would do: he got really, really wasted. Still bored, he decided to go for a stroll. However, to add some spice, he decided to do this butt naked while destroying every inanimate object in his path. First, he trashed the offices at the resort he was stuck at, and drove a forklift into a wall. Then he went to a nearby store and destroyed the deli and meat departments, ruining three scales, a meat-wrapping machine, a soda cooler, a delivery truck, and a 300-pound pizza oven. Overall, he did $40,000 worth of damage. HOT.

I think the bar has just been set for great achievements in gratuitous vandalism committed by a non-rock star. My hat--and pants--go off to Nicholas Hadzick.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:38 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

 

Helping hands

Enough with all the serious talk about my legal drama, it's time for what Robert Sylvester Kelly would deem REAL TALK.  That means any subject raunchier and funnier than making bullshit attacks on my first amendment rights to free speech, and today that means HANDJOBS.

I was having the following conversation with one of my male friends the other day over Gchat, and somehow handjobs came up.
Razzy: who gives those anymore?
Dude: LOL
Razzy: that's like a $5 hooker in a car
Dude: I love them actually
Razzy: i haven't wanked a guy in AGES
Razzy: i just go straight in with the BJ
Dude: you should go back to old school and start handing out (wink) the hj's
Razzy: maybe i should!
Razzy: i didn't realize they were such a fave with the fellas
Dude: they're awesome
Dude: when performed right
This male love of handjobs was news to me. I can't remember the last time I jerked a dude off, or that a dude requested said sex act.  Don't get me wrong, I grab my honeys' weiners all the time, but I rarely commit to an honest-to-goodness tugging sesh lasting more than a couple of minutes before I replace my hand with either my mouth or my vagina.  In fact, the closest thing to a handjob I have performed not in prehistory was sending my college boyfriend Benzo a wax mold of my hand in the international sign for beating off to remind him of me while I was away doing an internship in California for the summer...of 1998.  I always figured that guys could always do it better themselves than I ever could since they have had so much more practice spanking it than myself.  Besides, I have a Catholic schoolgirl's blowjob abilities, and the popularity of that particular means of penis stimulation may have blinded me to the fact that handjobs are still in vogue. 

I've always thought handjobs were the province of inexperienced, nervous teenage girls and  female serial killers selling their bodies from under overpasses on I-95.  They seemed almost outdated to me, like some type of sexual albatross, relegated along with diaphragms, belted maxi-pads, and douching to the annals of sexual and reproductive history.  Handjobs make me think of some greasy, bloated dude with a comb over and an unfortunate fetish for Old Spice in a 1985 Dodge Aries propositioning herpetic tweakers along South Tacoma Way, not the educated professionals that I prefer to have drunk sex with.

Clearly, I need to adjust my sexual strategies in the future.  As an accomplished slut, I can't feel good about my prowess in the sack if I'm depriving the honeys of something so enjoyable.  I think I'd better perform a little experiment to investigate the true demand for going "old school."  I'll come right out of the gate with a handjob, and see if the guy likes it or not.  If not, I'll find out if my technique is the problem, or if they just don't like handjobs.  I'll then publish my findings on prevalence of handjob preference in a peer-reviewed journal (except by "journal" I mean "RAZZY.org," and by "peer-reviewed," I mean "totally not peer-reviewed unless you count Chingy! and Caesar occasionally sniffing at and/or shedding on my laptop").

Or you could save me a lot of trouble and a brutal case of carpal tunnel syndrome by just weighing in with some comments.  TOPIC: Handjobs, yea or nay?  Go.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:27 AM 5 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: helpful Razzyphiles


*RAZZY Note: I figured that my favorite fans wouldn't be fans at all if I put their pictures up, so I instead substituted pictures of things that rule. Namely: steak, R. Kelly, the FACSCalibur, Red Sonja, the Seattle Seahawks, the Predator, Rainier Beer, Steve Sanders, two-time Olympic gold medalist and current TNA Wrestling World Heavyweight Champion Kurt Angle, Family Picornaviridae, Captain Sig Hansen, and pre-Stay Puft "are you a God?" Gozer the Gozerian AKA hottest 80s power aerobidyke EVER)

Name: Whatever is on your driver's license/passport/valid government ID, unless you consider yourself a Razzy Hater, in which case you should fuck promptly off

DOB: various

Occupation: various, but all involve being supportive and totally ruling

Hometown: various

Current residence: Razzy Kills (in Dutch, that means "Razzy Creek"!)

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Because when he said "I'm gonna sue you," you all really felt for me. The past two days have been very stressful for me, but thanks to all the excellent advice I've received about my current legal trouble, I think I'm going to be okay. In fact, I think I'm going to continue to totally rule. My business is being handled, and I feel better about the whole shitshow because not only am I confident that I have done nothing wrong, I've received so much kind support and advice from so many of you. Without all those Gchats, comments, phone conversations, personal conversations, and e-mails, I wouldn't be nearly as calm and prepared for battle as I am now. You guys TOTALLY rock, and I don't care if you say something as simple as "You rule, Razzy!" or give me specific and comprehensive legal advice. Your moral and technical support absolutely means the world to me, and I thank you with far more sincerity and candor than the sonofabitchbastard individual who is causing all my legal drama could ever muster.

In particular, I'd like to emphatically honor the following Razzyphiles:
HotLawyer
JerseyGirl
Morrissey'sHair
LL Cool Jew
BigBagel
Benzo
Senioritis
Twathopper
J-Sexy
SisterChristian
My PI
KatieScarlett
Wmania
Fallonius Monk
ElCyd
L&L

For those people and others who have sent me sentiments of support and helpful advice, I feel so much gratitude that I am actually unable to express it right now. Win or lose, my spirit is indomitable thanks to you all. I love you guys. TRUST!

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:30 AM 5 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Jenna Jameson


Name: Jenna Marie Massoli

DOB: April 9, 1974

Occupation: media whore, ex-porn whore, animal rights activist

Hometown: Las Vegas, Nevada

Current residence: Los Angeles, California

Douchebaggery: It's bad enough that Jenna Jameson has decided to follow up her epic triumphs in pornography with an excess of cut-rate plastic surgery, a severe case of anorexia nervosa, and a seemingly endless reserve of energy for attending events (runway shows for designers I've never heard of, cell phone accessory launch parties, etc.) where her grim visage might be more readily photographed commiting shameless crimes of PDA with ugly neckless ultimate fighters.  Now, to make me REALLY hate her, she has gone and done an ad campaign for PETA.

Doing an ad for PETA is the quickest way to garner my everlasting disdain.  I've gone off previously on this regarding Shirley Manson from Garbage, some dumb singer girl named Nellie McKay who made an obnoxious video for a crappy song busting on Columbia, and Girl Next Door #1 Holly (and for those of you who have been demanding Razzy vadge pics, read that last posting!).  I hate PETA because they're overbearing, totally hypocritical, dog-killing assholes.  Seriously, PETA claims that "animals are not ours to eat, wear, experiment on, or use for entertainment," but they're fine to dispose of when you're talking about dogs brought to their shelters.  PETA vehemently opposes no-kill shelters and euthanize the majority of cats and dogs brought to their "rescue" facilities.  In 2005, they euthanized 88% of the unclaimed pets in their care.  Once they "saved" 18 rabbits and 14 roosters from a research facility and euthanized them because they didn't have the money to maintain them.  So...it's not okay to perform potentially valuable medical research on these animals, but it IS okay to kill them and throw them away?  That makes sense.  Apparently, killing animals is only acceptable to PETA when you have to meet your budget's bottom line, and get absolutely no benefit whatsoever from that animal's life.  I hate HATE HATE PETA, so now that goes for Jenna Jameson, as well.

Even worse, PETA, in all its insufferable wisdom, decided to dress Jenna up as Bettie Page, who is undoubtedly vomiting into her strained prunes at whatever old folks' home she currently resides.  Surely the legendary pinup icon doesn't appreciate being emulated in a costume cobbled together with a patent pleather bikini from the clearance bin at Fantasy World and a busted wig from Ricky's.   Jenna looks a hell of a lot more like she should be wearing a cloak and ferrying recently departed souls across the river Styx than posing for softcore 50s-era S&M erotica.  Way to go, PETA.  I'm sure leather futures are plummeting as we speak.  

This makes me want to go eat a steak, put on one of my many luxurious fur coats, and kill some mice in the name of virology.  

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:35 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

 

The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies' Night

Yesterday, ElCyd Gchatted me about my disastrous run-in with Blu the morbidly obese bulldyke at the Cubby Hole this weekend, and we got to bitching about the lesbian scene in our respective cities:
ElCyd: even though my skinny dog-walker named Blue is clearly not the same "Blu" from this weekend, I feel compelled to apologize anyway.
Razzy: LOL
ElCyd: for serious
Razzy: yeah "skinny" is NOT the adjective for old Blu
Razzy: ugh i was so annoyed
Razzy: never mind that there are only like 4 lesbian bars in nyc
Razzy: this is the only one that has chicks i'd even remotely CONSIDER effing at it
ElCyd: (a whopping 4 more than in dc)
Razzy: and this slut has to piss jamba juice all over my game
ElCyd: i was so irritated just reading it.
ElCyd: mostly because those are the only dykes in dc
Razzy: WHY are those crusty old bulldykes like that???
Razzy: it's SO common in that particular lezzie demographic!
ElCyd: they're the only ones who go out
ElCyd: at least regularly
Razzy: yeah because they're the only ones not all coupled up
ElCyd: although i'm surprised that you didn't roll to the shack.
Razzy: well, it's in brooklyn
ElCyd: you'd think there would be more femmes there trying to hit it
Razzy: and andro hipster lezzies annoy me too
ElCyd: right
Razzy: we'll probably go there some night when CasseeNova is around
Razzy: might as well see some familiar faces as long as i'm trekking all the way out to the slope
ElCyd: word.
ElCyd: i'm both fascinated and annoyed by hipster lezzies.
Razzy: i seriously can't believe there are no lez bars in DC
Razzy: DC gets lamer every time I hear something new about it
ElCyd: seriously
ElCyd: at least we have better and better food
Razzy: like, where do the ladies meet?
ElCyd: but that just makes us fat
Razzy: craigslist?
ElCyd: there's a rotating party - www.adkln.com
ElCyd: it's a once a week thing
ElCyd: and they have the regular "ladies night" festivities at the area bars
ElCyd: i mean, there's always Phase 1 or "the phase"
ElCyd: which is, i guess, a real deal lesbo bar
Razzy: hey they have one of these adkln things in NYC
ElCyd: but no one ever goes.
Razzy: these ladies night things
Razzy: oh
Razzy: dude the music on the website SUCKS
ElCyd: right?
ElCyd: fucking lame
Razzy: oh damn there's one tomorrow!
ElCyd: the chick who owns adkln has wanted to branch out
ElCyd: so it makes sense that they're in nyc
ElCyd: how does it look?
Razzy: well, i like the sound of "women, drinks specials, no cover"
Razzy: and there's a hottish ho on the site
ElCyd: look at the photos
ElCyd: it'll give you an idea of who goes
Razzy: ugh horsefaced girls playing ping pong
Razzy: annoying hipster dykes
Razzy: talking about teagan and sara
ElCyd: oh, ew.
ElCyd: gross
ElCyd: not that the scene in dc is better
ElCyd: but still
Razzy: jesus there is this one bitch
Razzy: who looks like she's going to eat me
Razzy: and not in a good way
ElCyd: omg
ElCyd: with the mutant teeth?
Razzy: YES
It's official: lesbians are the lamest party group in the universe. This is surprising because I know many lesbians who can tear it up, but I guess that's probably why those lesbians aren't crazily into the lezzie scene. A social scene doesn't get more abysmally, insufferably boring than this (at least, not without throwing in a performance by the Smiffenpoofs or some other caterwauling Smith College acapella group).  Now I know what happened to all those girls at Smith who lived in one of the houses famed for extreme mousiness and overall fuggery (Morris, Lawrence, Albright, Baldwin, Hopkins, Hubbard, etc.).  They are all sipping fuzzy navels at "A Different Kind of Ladies Night."


If you check out the photo gallery, you'll note two things: 
1. Only about six lesbians go to these things
2. They're all BUTT-ASS UGLY

Take, for example, the prettiest girl there:
Nothing gets this low-rent Mandy Moore lookalike in the mood for some snatch-licking like a sexy game of PING-PONG.  Not even beer pong?  Losers.

There's also the aforementioned porker with "the mutant teeth."  She's in a lot of the pictures, repping hard for the lezzie BBWs:

Again, Porky the Pie-Eater looks hungry, and even if I got drunk enough to mentally take 50 pounds off her, I'd be too scared she wouldn't think my goodies were a damn tuna melt or something.  Back to the Old Country Buffet with you.  You are not the one for me, fatty.

And of course there's a "Little Boy Lesbian" in attendance.  These are the kind of lesbians who, for whatever reason, are taking style cues from Holden Caulfield.  This one is sassing it up with a shirt encouraging me to "Avoid Temptation." 

As tempted as I was by her lack of a figure, somehow I managed to avoid mentally ripping off her many layers of t-shirts and ravaging her in the boudoir of my mind.

Also, there's a Pixie Lesbo.  You know this girl is totally a vegan.

Ugh, I can already imagine all the fairies and crystals and crap this bitch has stuck all over her apartment.  She probably doesn't shave her pits, either.   Gross.

Alert Macauley and Kieran!  The Culkin brood is missing a baby dyke!

(In fairness, I can't bust too hard on this one because she kind of looks like me circa 1995.  Give her a tattered copy of Arial and a Hole CD and she could be me).

And fresh from the pages of the Brothers Grimm comes this busted ball of frizz.

Sorry, honey, but I'm not into banging broads who look like they'll lure me to their gingerbread house and cook me into a stew.

Seven words: Smith College Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS)

Back in my Smith days, SSFFS (pronounced like "Sisyphus") was my favorite club to bust on, because their office was next door to the newspaper where I worked.  I was always hassling them.  They'd complain we were blasting the Def Leppard too loudly, and I'd tell them they were reading their Robert Heinlein novels too loudly in response.  Trust that this chick has a Philip K. Dick book stashed in her purse for the train ride home (alone) from ladies' night.

What lesbian party would be complete without a shiteous duo of armband tat-sporting fugly singer/songwriters clad head-to-toe in Urban Outfitters faux vintage casual wear?  I can already hear the atonal Jewel covers full of lyrics about emotion and feelings drifting across the ping-pong tables.

"These hands are small, I know, but they are not yours, they are my own."

I don't see how this is a "different kind of ladies' night," because from what I can tell, this looks like every lame Smith party I ever went to.  All they need is a teapot, a Subaru, and a "Smith College 1875-1975: A Century of Women on Top" shirt and we may as well be in Northampton, Assachusetts.  It's the same old busted girls with no life and terrible taste in what makes a social gathering fun: carousing, hollering, showing your tits, drinking more than one non-fruit-flavored beer, making out with people, and generally causing a ruckus.  Go back to your lame fucking nonprofit jobs and call me when you actually DO have a different kind of ladies night (specifically, when "different" means there will be hot chicks and a decent party!)

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:20 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my soon-to-be lawyer


RAZZY Note: None of these are my lawyers, but they are good examples of the kind of shark I'm going to retain. In the undisclosed matter for which I need a lawyer, I think that either Ben Matlock, Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy, Atticus Finch, Silver Fox William Jefferson Clinton, or Matt Durning from "Beverly Hills, 90210" seasons 8-10 would be acceptable counsel.

Name: TBD

DOB: TBD

Occupation: barristry, awesomeness

Hometown: TBD

Current residence: New York, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: It's only Tuesday, but it's already been a brisk week here in the RAZZY.org legal department (and by "legal department" I mean my friend HotLawyer). I'm not going to really talk about what's going on right now, except to say that I'm not surprised that an abusive, misogynistic bastard has turned to the legal system as a means of further harassing me. I thus intend to lawyer up myself and let the professionals handle it. So does anyone know a good attorney on the fair isle of Mannahattas who knows a lot about defamation law? Holler at your girl.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:44 AM 8 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Eliot Spitzer


Name: Eliot Laurence Spitzer

Alias: George Fox, Client 9

DOB: June 10, 1959

Occupation: governor of New York; john

Hometown: Riverdale, the Bronx, New York, New York

Current residence: Albany, New York (but possibly not for long)

Douchebaggery: Ever since he was elected governor of the Empire State, Eliot Spitzer has been dogged with all sorts of accusations. There have been a number of scandals related to him pulling all sorts of trickery against his political opponents in the state Assembly and Senate, including using state police to document his rivals' travels and conspiring to influence media coverage of scandals related to his enemies. However, that all looks like a cakewalk compared to his most recent fuck-up.  It seems Eliot likes to unwind from all that hard work being a "fucking steamroller" (as he once described himself to a political rival) with a nice, relaxing hour or two with a high-priced call girl.

Last night, LL Cool Jew and I were talking about this and she said, "Dude, did you see the Times article about Spitzer?  You've got to check it out.  It reads like a Jackie Collins novel."  I immediately went and read it, and realized why Eliot was so vague in his press conference yesterday.  He's seemingly such an old hand at shelling out for these expensive hookers to the point where he has hundreds of dollars in credit left over from previous bookings, and the prostitutes were gossiping that "George Fox" looked a whole lot like the governor of New York.

I don't really care if dudes patronize hookers.  For starters, I don't believe that prostitution should be illegal.  Adults selling something that it's legal to give away for free to other adults seems to me like a victimless crime.  However, when the john in question himself prosecuted several prostitution rings and was elected based on promises to about restoring ethics to Albany. I have a problem with his credibility.  Eliot Spitzer shouldn't have been busting up prostitution rings and bloviating about his ethical credentials when he's known around the escort service water cooler as a "difficult client" with tastes the hookers are reticent about indulging.  Although he did make good on one campaign promise: 

Bring some passion back to Albany, huh?  Well, Eliot certainly did that as far as his passion for the ladies of the night are concerned.  He may be a hypocritical dumbass, but nobody could ever accuse him of not bringing the passion.  Apparently his passions are so kinky that his hooker had to say, "Listen, dude, you really want the sex?" in response to some requests on his part that were outside her comfort zone.  Kudos on making good on your campaign promises.  Your constituents thank you.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:36 AM 4 Comments Links to this post

Monday, March 10, 2008

 

Go down strapped

Lil' Wayne has done it again: he has come up with a classic photo for the "Say Something Nice" file.  Surprisingly, this time it isn't a mugshot.  Not surprisingly, it's more homoerotic than the milk bath scene in Spartacus.  It seems Lil' Wayne has decided to extend his merchandizing empire to condoms.  There is a niche market for scrawny pot-smoking thugs who like to get together with their fake adopted fathers for a brisk game of (wink, wink) poker, and Tha Carter is tapping it like Birdman does his ass:

This isn't doing much to help the case that Lil' Wayne is a virile heterosexual, although it does provide some insight as to why he seems to be so fond of getting arrested.  First he gets warmed up being manhandled by a grimacing Perez Hilton-looking cop, followed by some hot flesh-shanking with the boys in the pokey.  I'm glad he's conscious (right down to his little red AIDS ribbon) of making sure said boys don't spread their HIV around to the entire cellblock.  Smart thinking, Weezy Fuckin' Baby.

[RAZZY Note: Thanks to Razzyphile HotCzech for passing this along.  Happy Razzyphile Appreciation Month!  XOBJBS.]

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:21 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: fat ugly overbearing lesbians who call me "Britney"


RAZZY Note: this isn't the fat, ugly, overbearing lesbian I am particularly annoyed with, but it's the closest approximation I could find with a Google search for "fat ugly lesbian." This is Daphne Wright, a deaf lezzie who murdered some chick that was hitting on her girlfriend. Currently the South Dakota Supreme Court is deciding whether or not to put her on death row, because it might be cruel and unusual to execute someone who can't hear.

Name: on Saturday, she introduced herself to me as "Blu"

DOB: ???-mid-70s-???

Occupation: hitting on me via insults, being pushy and obnoxious, clitblocking me with the cute femme chicks at the Cubby Hole

Hometown: the Bronx, New York, New York

Current residence: cruising for bitches in the Village of the West

Douchebaggery: As I mentioned last week, I spent Saturday night at the lezzie bar trying to get some pussy for my honey-loving protegee Twathopper. She didn't manage to score any gash, but she did chat up a few ladies quite comfortably and didn't run away from any of them in terror, so I think the night was overall a success. Unfortunately, I didn't have as much luck in the comfortable chatting with the cute girls department.

The night started off very promising. We ate some delicious sushi, and got a few saketinis in the tank to bolster Twathopper's courage for rubbing elbows with the fingerbangity set, and set out for the West Village buoyant with optimism. Although it took forever to get a drink and the bar was crowded enough to warrant negative attention from the fire marshal, we started off by flirting with a couple of relatively pretty lipstick chicks. Sadly, those girls left to go clubbing, so we stepped out to smoke a cigarette, where I was set upon by a fat, hideously ugly butch dyke named Blu.

After showing off her pocketful of Jamba Juice gift cards, Blu managed to get a few minutes of our time by offering us a blunt, which I will neither confirm nor deny we smoked. During this time she regaled us with her opinion on my looks. Apparently in Blu's estimation, I was the hottest girl in the bar. This would have been better coming from someone not more busted than a '79 Pacer with no muffler. I'm not kidding when I say that Blu looked like a bald cupcake in an ill-fitting Akademks sweatshirt. Thus we headed back inside, but were unable to shake Blu. Blu insisted on introducing me to all her ugly butch friends...as BRITNEY.

"My name is ANGIE," I insisted.

"Okay, Britney."

"Don't call me Britney!"

"Why? Britney's hot, Britney."

Is this 2002? Because the last time I checked, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has been looking a whole lot more like a stray bitch in whelp than the hot piece of ass she once was six years ago. As much as I love Britney, I don't consider being compared to her a compliment. Not to mention I don't have a weave with rats nesting in it, I wasn't wearing torn fishnets, I don't rock the Lee Press-On nails, and I've never been accused of giving off a persistent odor of yesterday's Taco Bell. I was also wearing the standard Razzy uniform (jeans, high heeled boots, and a V-neck titty shirt) rather than my Halloween costume, so these dykes' insistence on referring to me as "Britney" was really, REALLY pissing me off.

"My name is not Britney," I finally said to Blu's main wingbutch. "My name is ANGIE, and I don't like being called Britney."

"But you're blonde," said Wingbutch. "Blu always goes for you little blonde white girls."

Ohhhh, I see. Because Blu has a racial fetish, I'm supposed to just answer to "Britney" like a good dumb blonde. Sorry, bitches, but I don't accomodate insults just because your fat ugly ass wants to play with a Barbie.

"Well, that's fine," I said to Wingbutch. "And I may be blonde, but I'm not a dumb fucking bitch. I'm getting a Ph.D at Columbia. In SCIENCE. And my NAME IS ANGIE."

At least Twathopper was spending this time flirting with a cute chick. I'm glad at least one of us wasn't having her game irreparably tainted by this posse of overbearing, pushy, possessive harpie lumberjacks. When she took a break from her mark, I was like, "Dude, we have to get outside and smoke. NOW."

We escaped outside for a minute, until Blu caught on and came out to find me.

"You're not LEAVING, are you, Britney?"

"PLEASE stop calling me Britney," I said, exasperated.

"Look, you've got to call me, Britney. I'm not like these other girls. I want to get to know YOU. I'm all about YOU."

"How about you start by calling me by my real name?"

Blu ignored this. "I am into having a relationship with YOU. It's all about YOU. The sex is secondary, it's about the relationship with YOU."

"Well, that's where we've got a problem. I do chicks, not relationships. The sex is PRIMARY for me." I thought to myself this was yet another piece of evidence validating my theory that only hideous people think sex is unimportant.

"Oh, I'll change that."

"Yeah, sure. You know, the guys I hook up with aren't trying to wife me. They also call me Angie."

"Oh...you're BI, Britney?"

"Yeah," I said defiantly. "I play both sides of the ball."

"I'll change that."

"Whatevs. Later, Blu." Twathopper and I rushed off into a cab. I was totally pissed. My well of potential pussy had been completely poisoned by Blu and her disrespectful, entitled insistence on being the worst girlfriend ever.

What the fuck is up with these big, burly old butches? They can be worse than men in terms of objectifying and diminishing chicks they set their sights on. Blu didn't listen to a goddamn word I said and just tried to bully her way into my snatch. In spite of her lame sales pitch about being interested in knowing me, she couldn't even address me by my actual name. I can think of very few times I've ever been so minimized by someone who wanted to get in my pants. I've fucked frat boys in bathrooms who treated me with greater humanity and kindness. I guess Blu has to count on manipulating the insecurities of her targets, because she's not scoring pussy based on her utterly unfuckable fat ugliness. However, I am not insecure, and I won't be suckered into getting head from a morbidly obese asshole because of inept attempts to strip me of my identity and possess me. Find some other bitch to spend your Jamba Juice gift cards on. Blu wishes she could kiss my hot ass.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:01 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Louisiana turtles


Name: genera in family Chelydridae (Chelydra serpentina, Macroclemys temmincki, Sternothaerus odoratus, Sternothacrus carinalus, Kinosternon subrubrum hippocrepis, Terrapene carolina jajor, Terrapene carolina triunguis, Malaclemys terrapin pileata, Graptemys kohni, Graptemys pseudographica ouachlensis, Chrysemys picta dorsalis, Pseudemys scripta scripta, Psedemys scripta elegas, Pseudemys concinna mobilensis, Pseudemys foridana hoyi, Deirochelys reticularia reticularia, Deirochelys reticularia miaria, Gopherus polyphemus, Trionyx muticus, Trionyx spinifer hartwegi, Trionyx spinifer asper, Trionyx spinifer emoryi)

DOB: prehistory

Occupation: snapping, being delicious

Hometown: throughout the Pelican State in rivers, lakes, estuaries, bayous, etc.

Current residence: a delicious pot of turtle soup

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: So I decided that I needed a vacation, and booked a ticket to New Orleans to visit my dear friend LL Cool Jew this June.  Since then, she has been regaling me with stories about all the fun things we're going to do as history nerds and fat-ass gluttons.  She's taking me on a swamp tour, a plantation tour, a tour of the now-abandoned projects where Juvenile grew up (except by "tour" I mean we're going to get fish and shrimp po boys and drive by), and the seafood festival that's going on the weekend I'm down there (and that's not a lesbian party...although if something like that is happening I'm sure LL Cool Jew would be down to check it out for old time's sake).  However, the one thing she keeps raving about me trying is not a Hand Grenade, a visit to Cajun country, or a tour of the plantation upon which Twelve Oaks from Gone With the Wind was based.  She won't quiet down about turtle soup.

All day I get Gchat messages from her along the lines of "sweet meaty turtles, precious" and "turtly deliciousness."  LL Cool Jew is obsessed with turtle consumption.  As soon as I advised her I'd confirmed my Newark-NOLA ticket, she e-mailed me a slew of turtle pictures.  I sent her back the above picture of Shredder crowing about dining on turtle soup, and she replied that his signature phrase would be my "battle cry" for this vacation.  Then she told me about how she freaked out while watching some filmstrip during the class on Louisiana history she's taking because they showed footage of a snapping turtle bisecting a broomstick with its jaws.  Since then, she eats turtle soup on the daily and says things to her soup like, "Who's doing the snapping now?" 

As an adventurous eater, I am now sufficiently excited to try turtle soup.  I've certainly put more disgusting things in my mouth than stewed turtle and cajun spices, so I am sure I will probably like it.  You go on with your tasty selves, Louisiana turtles! 

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:54 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Friday, March 07, 2008

 

Twathopper is ready to spring

Although I've been trying to dispense useful advice about running a stable of hos and becoming technically proficient at girl-girl sex to my lesbian apprentice Twathopper, she hasn't had much luck with the ladies.  By "luck with the ladies" I mean she hasn't gotten further than second base.  Her problem is that she doesn't know how to pick decent girls.  Her first would-be girlfriend, Writersprout, was so lame that her hobbies are baking vegan cupcakes and SUBLETTING.  Sure, I'd like to experience living in other New York neighborhoods too, but moving every three months?  Sha right...get a life, loser.  She then went on a couple dates, one with some overbearing bulldyke who asked her 5 minutes into the date if she had "any questions to ask me about the lesbian community" because this bitch was so confident in her stereotypical representation of the lady gays that she appointed herself spokesbitch for all of us (yes, I'm including bisexuals like me under the heading of "lady gays.")  Her next would-be girlfriend, Sarah Babysits, hasn't put out after like 10 dates, is a former tweaker, current pill-popping drug addict, and perennial compulsive liar, and is an adult who actually BABYSITS for a living.  Twathopper just tried to dump Sarah Babysits via text message but the girl was so dumb she actually thought Twathopper was FLIRTING with her.  Twathopper's record with the ladies so far is a cautionary tale as to why Nerve.com is not a fertile hunting ground for either a fulfilling relationship or a hot lay.

Anyway, Twathopper is a grown woman who has recently embraced her lesbianism in her late twenties.  Therefore, she doesn't need to spend a lot of time processing about how she has gone "solstice;" she's ready to lose her lez virginity.  Since it's not looking like Sarah Babysits is going to help out in this department (she's spit a lot of the "let's take it slow, I've been hurt before, so let's just kiss and talk" game that was so popular with the boobmashers on the four-year plan at Smith College) and since she's a despicable character anyway, I told Twathopper that she needs to drop her flies into a new honey hole.

There's just one problem with this: Twathopper's last trip to a place where lesbians congregate and drink was disastrous.  She went with JerseyGirl and her boyfriend Kodiak to this hipster lezzie bar in Brooklyn called Cattyshack.  Cattyshack is generally filled with the New York City equivalent of the Smith College BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus): androgynous, too-cool-for-school bitches who drink PBR from a can for kitsch value, read and/or publish zines, brag about their love of bands nobody's ever heard of, carry messenger bags manufactured by either Brooklyn Industries or Manhattan Portage, and wear cumbersome glasses whether they need vision correction or not.  I'm under the impression that Twathopper likes cute, femmy brunettes, so the selection of available women at Cattyshack wasn't really her style.  Furthermore, she's got a problem with nerves.  According to all accounts, one of the hot lipstick chicks there took a shine to Twathopper and JerseyGirl took it upon herself to bring her over to meet Twathopper, and according to Twathopper herself, she "bugged."  She ran outside to smoke a cigarette and thus effectively clitblocked herself.  I advised her that fleeing in terror from interested hot chicks is not an effective strategy for picking up pussy at the gay bar.

So this weekend, I am taking it upon myself to get Twathopper laid.  On Saturday night, we will be slutted out and getting trashed at this fine establishment in the Village of the West, the aptly named Cubby Hole:


Originally this was supposed to be a big group outing, but JerseyGirl and Kodiak bailed because they have to get up early and go running on Sunday.  This is just as well, because I think a big part of Twathopper's problem is nervousness about having an audience for her maiden voyage into Oyster Bay.  Therefore, we're going out for dinner (raw fish...OF COURSE) with JerseyGirl and Kodiak first, where I plan to ensure that Twathopper is well-lubed with vodka martinis prior to hitting the lesbian bar with just me.  And not that I'm some kind of lesbo pick-up artist or something, but I'm enough of a player, a drunk, and a generally competent barfly to be a useful wingslut in exactly this situation.  Besides, maybe I'll nail some hot chick too!  
Razzy: so jerseygirl made us sushi reservations for 7:30 pm saturday!
Twathopper: word up
Twathopper: sushi! then lezzies.
Twathopper: perfecto
Razzy: tuna fest
Razzy: it's going to be rad
Twathopper: hahahah
Twathopper: it shall
Twathopper: no matter what happens, i know you and i can certainly make a night out one for the books
Razzy: FA SHO!
Twathopper: i feel shots coming on
Twathopper: yes razzy, yes i do
Razzy: hopefully you will at least conquer your fear of talking to lesbians in social settings
Twathopper: that would be good
Razzy: or at least talking to unfamiliar lesbians
Razzy: particular unfamiliar but cute lesbians who are trying to talk to you
Twathopper: true that
Twathopper: hopefully some lesbian ground will be broken and officially conquered on sat night
Twathopper: and it's better that a bunch of other people don't come b/c i get pretty self conscious with them there
Razzy: yeah i think that when it's a group thing there's more pressure for you
Razzy: like, "let's all watch twathopper try to hit on chicks"
Twathopper: EXACTLY
Razzy: i will be too busy trying to get pussy for myself to pay too much attention to criticizing your moves
Razzy: i mean, of course i'll help out wingman style
Twathopper: i just told my other friends i wouldn't meet them out b/c of this
Twathopper: i'm all balls this week
Twathopper: yesssss
Razzy: NICE
Razzy: that's the spirit, twathopper!
Twathopper: so hopefully it'll transfer over to sat night
Razzy: well i hope so
Razzy: and again,
Razzy: since it's not like twathopper the lesbian show
Razzy: hopefully it will be like a nice, normal night
Razzy: you know
Razzy: go have some drinks
Razzy: find some honey
Razzy: bang her brains out
Twathopper: getting drunk and making out
Twathopper:: hahaha
Razzy: or that
Twathopper: find some honey
Razzy: yeah!
Razzy: we'll make sure you drink plenty of liquid courage before we hit the cubby hole
Twathopper: i'm always at my best when there's no expectations on the night
Razzy: exax
Twathopper: oh totes
Razzy: maybe we'll run into sarah babysits
Razzy: oh wait, she's probs babysitting
Razzy: or getting zonked on OCs and Xanax and meth
Twathopper: ding ding ding
Twathopper: she babysits like every sat night
Twathopper: loser
Twathopper: prolly half coked out on OCs
Razzy: here is Sarah Babysits's CV:
Razzy: Experience:
Razzy: 1. Babysitting
Razzy: 2. Methamphetamine addiction
Twathopper: AHAHAHAHA
Razzy: 3. Prescription pill devourer
Razzy: 4. Lesbian virgin
Razzy: 5. Self-involved prude
Twathopper: 5. Text message connoisseur
Razzy: 6. Bad liar
Razzy: 7. Dumbass unable to recognize withering sarcasm
Twathopper: 8. horrible communication skills
Razzy: 9. Ugly
Twathopper: well i can't say that
Razzy: (okay, she's not ugly, but i just hate her)
Twathopper:: but i should start
Razzy: she's ugly on the inside!
Razzy: Yeah, I'd hire her to watch my kids
Twathopper: yeah 9. hated by twathopper's friends
Razzy: TRUTH
Razzy: and we haven't even met her
Twathopper: hahahaha
Razzy: but i can tell you she is assuredly despicable
Twathopper: assuredly
Razzy: 10. Bev Niner fan POSEUR  [RAZZY Edit: Sarah Babysits claims she loves "Beverly Hills, 90210" despite being only 23.]
Twathopper: i know!
Twathopper: b/c she was honestly in FIRST grade when it started
Razzy: 11. Dork and pukemeister  [RAZZY Edit: this derogatory insult can be attributed to Kelly Taylor regarding a certain David Silver vomiting out of her convertible BMW on the way home from the "underground club" where Emily Valentine slipped U4EA into Brandon Walsh's Sprite]
Twathopper: and she said her mom let her watch that shit
Twathopper: uhh a 7 yr old watching that?
Razzy: 12. This bitch is never again  [RAZZY Edit: Also courtesy of the incomparable Ms. Kelly Taylor]
Twathopper: yessssssssssssssss
Razzy:: if we run into her, i'm totz throwing a drink on her
Razzy: i can bring the lezzie dramz
Razzy: and i'm bringing drink-throwing back into vogue
Twathopper: yesssssss
Twathopper: this is gonna be fun
Razzy: yesterday it was (this one dude I boned)
Twathopper: omg!
Razzy: saturday it will be sarah babysits
Razzy: then, it's the world!
Razzy:: fear razzy and her flying glass of scotch!
Twathopper: guess who is SUBLETTING in the westr village right now
Twathopper: WRITERSPROUT
Twathopper: if we see her, it's on
Razzy: YESSSS
Razzy: although she probs hangs out at cattyshack since she's such a brooklyn snob
Twathopper: well when she does this subletting thing she really focuses on the "new neighborhood"
Twathopper: good god i hope we see her
Razzy: i hope we do too
Razzy: i'll keep my drink-throwing arm limber
I have high hopes for Twathopper. After Saturday, she's going to be--per her terminology--"legit solstice." Before you know it, she'll be an old pro capable of sucking the pink out of a salmon. TRUST.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:04 AM 5 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Tom Hanks


Name: Thomas Jeffrey Hanks

DOB: July 9, 1956

Occupation: world's most annoying actor

Hometown: Concord, California

Current residence: Los Angeles, California

Douchebaggery:  I have a special place in my heart for young Tom Hanks.  Not only was "Bosom Buddies" one of the greatest TV shows ever, but cinematic accomplishment such as that seen in Splash, Volunteers, Bachelor Party, Dragnet, and Turner and Hooch is a treasured addition to the American film lexicon.  

That said, I completely HATE almost every other Tom Hanks movie ever made.  Big was about children so I naturally hated it.  Philadelphia was a real drag (although in fairness, I have yet to see an AIDS movie that can be described as "a rollicking good time" or "laugh-out-loud hysterical").  Forrest Gump was almost three hours of unbearably heavy-handed treacle.  Apollo 13 was boooooorrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnngggg.  Saving Private Ryan stopped entertaining me as soon as the Omaha Beach part was over (and since Tom Hanks's character didn't die there, the movie was ruined).  In Cast Away, the volleyball was a more compelling character.  Any form of The Da Vinci Code--whether printed on a page or broadcast on a screen--is sufficient to get me foaming at the mouth with ire and disdain.  Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail are the kind of movies that make me consider a career in movie theater suicide bombing.  Trust that for the good of my fellow man, I haven't seen either one.  Casting Tom Hanks in a movie these days is the quickest way to make me NOT go see a movie.  For example, I took one look at Charlie Wilson's War and saw that not only was Tom Hanks playing the titular male lead, it also had Julia Roberts sounding like she forgot how to do the grating Southern accent she butchered in Steel Magnolias and was thus resorting to a bad imitation of it.  That's the kind of movie that makes me want to smoke a cigarette in a bathtub full of gasoline.  Death by explosion is preferable.

In addition to Tom Hanks's recent decade of obnoxious, infuriating film roles is something Tom Hanks said the other day while he was touring the U.S. Capitol building the other day to promote his new miniseries John Adams.  In between joking around with Nancy Pelosi and posing for pictures, Tom Hanks decided to weigh in with his political opinions, because he's a movie star and apparently people might care who he's voting for.  He confirmed his support for Senator Barack Obama's presidential bid and said, "I wish the election was being held tomorrow.  I'm bored!"

Did you hear that, America?  If you are undecided on the Democratic candidates, you better just suck it up and get on Team Obama, because Tom Hanks isn't being entertained by this whole so-called "primary" season.  Never mind that this is the most entertaining presidential race I can remember since Bush Sr. and Dukakis were battling it out back in the 80s, or that more of America is riveted by the electoral hijinks going on in the Hillary vs. Obama race than any primary face-off I can remember.  Tom Hanks is bored, so let's hurry this election the fuck up.  In fact, why don't we just skip the election and appoint Obama King?  I mean, if Tom Hanks is bored by the Democratic process, it must not be all it's cracked up to be, so maybe he can install a monarchy and save us the trouble of actually deciding who to vote for.  Besides, if Obama is good enough for Tom Hanks, he's good enough for America.  There's nobody more qualified to tell us who our president should be than an actor who has starred in movies about World War II and NASA.

God, SHUT UP, Tom Hanks!  I'm bored by YOU.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:09 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Razzyphiles


Name: Razzyphiles

DOB: various

Occupation: sending me awesome adulatory e-mails

Hometown: various

Current residence: various

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness:  I've been getting a lot of e-mail lately from random Razzyphiles, and I don't mean my friends.  I mean honest to God people I've never met before who rely on me for their daily allowance of useless bullshit.  I don't always get back to these correspondents in a timely manner, but I appreciate each and every e-mail nonetheless.  For one thing, it's nice to get e-mail not written by lunatics and/or racists and/or haters telling me that I suck and/or am fat and/or am ugly and/or whatever else.  For another, it makes waking up every day to write at the ass crack of dawn worth every drop of Sugar Free Red Bull needed to sustain my consciousness in the absence of a crowing cock at that hour.  If I didn't care that people read this, I'd stick to writing a damn journal; knowing that people do, I treat this blog like a second job and hearing that people are enjoying my hard work is all the payoff I need.  

Razzyphiles, you totally rock, and I've decided that March is now officially Razzyphile Appreciation Month.  I will try to honor any and all requests that come my way (so yes...at some point this month, I'll put up full-frontal nudes since a lot of people out there seem deeply interested in seeing my vagina.  I aim to please!)  So if there's something you want me to write about, something I told you I'd write about but haven't gotten around to, or some other reasonable request (ie: I won't commit any crimes, fuck anyone ugly or desperate--at least without having a drink or ten first, or write something that casts a favorable light on "Grey's Anatomy") for Razzified hotness, leave a comment or send me an e-mail and I'll do it!  

In fact, honoring such a request is why you see Chingy!'s ugly mug up at the top of this post in the first place.  One of these Razzyphilic e-mails came from a reader in Canada who was surprisingly not outraged by the indictment of hockey, Nickelback, and Anne of Green Gables I wrote a while back like many of her countrymen, and she wanted to see more Chingy!.  If pictures of that fat asshole were gold, I'd be a very wealthy woman, so how could I say no?

Anyway, I'm a Razzyphilephile, and I thank each and every one of you for reading from the bottom of my black and merciless heart.  You rule harder than receiving cunnilingus, John McCain, Bev Niner, Sig Hansen and the crew of the F/V Northwestern, the Seattle Seahawks, and Total Recall!  

XOBJBS,
Razzy  

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:16 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, March 06, 2008

 

R. Beast

Loyal Razzyphile Big Rump just e-mailed me to advise me of all sorts of useful information.  For starters, did you know that my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson is running a CELEBRITY GOSSIP BLOG?  It's true...it has articles about Lil' Kim having lesbian sex and shamelessly promotes some kind of diss video 50 Cent made about Fat Joe called "Elephant in the Sand" (*snicker*).  If anyone was born to bust on celebrities for totally arbitrary and capricious reasons, it's my man Curtis.  This is following up on another hilarious video Big Rump passed along, in which Fitty responds to a Fat Joe dissing him on Power105 ("don't mess up my teeth...I just got these, man!").  Needless to say, Big Rump went sailing on the internets and returned with a ship laden with the Razzy equivalent of silk, spices, and indigo.

Anyway, the best thing Big Rump passed along, however, has to be this link to a little song called "I'm a Beast" that a certain King/Pied Piper/R-uh of R&B has chosen to bless the music listening public with.  

YES!  A fresh Kells jam to tide me over until TP Fourth Quarter drops later this year!  Supposedly this song is about Kells's feud with Ne-Yo.  In the interest of informing those who aren't pathologically obsessed with R. Kelly like I am about the background of this beef, let me briefly reiterate what has transpired thus far.  Ne-Yo was supposed to open for Kells on his (mindblowingly awesome) Double Up tour.  Ne-Yo apparently wanted more money or was unhappy with his contract or something, so he left the tour before it barely got started.  Instead of just moving on with his life, Ne-Yo decided to get some press for something besides being R&B's most obvious closet homo next to Usher by suing R. Kelly for firing him out of jealousy over Ne-Yo's talent.  This is worthy of some audible laughter, since the man who has penned lines like "up in my room, you screamin, 'Hercules!  Hercules!'", "gonna go down on my knees and ax that ass to marry me," and "the next time your ass gets horny, go fuck one of your funky-ass friends...hell, you're probably already doing that shit anyway" is hardly bothered by a twink singing about how sexy his she-male life partner looks when (s)he's mad.   Fag, please.

Anyway, Ne-Yo should be shaking in his boots, because Kells did not decide to handle this one in court.  R. Kelly has bigger fish (ie: four felony child pornography counts) to fry in the legal department, so rather than distract any of his attorneys with Ne-Yo's bullshit lawsuit, he decided to deal with this himself, and on his terms.  Specifically, he hit the Chocolate Factory and laid down this track, or in his words, "call the hits my lawyer cause they got me out on bail."  Big Rump characterized this as "garbage," but I must disagree, unless by "garbage" he means "UNADULTERATED GENIUS."  Go listen to it now, or if you are too lazy to do so, here's the lyrics:
Ayyyyy-ayyyyyy-ayyyyy
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah
(CHORUS)
So get it understood, boy
I'm from the hood, boy
Came up from the dirt
Self-made hustla
I'm a beast
I'm a beast

(Rapping--verse 1)
I'm surrounded by these devil mouths all talkin about Kells
Some say I came from heaven but I rose up from hell
And ever since I rose up success has been my sale
So call the hits my lawyer cause they got me out on bail

Never been a snitch, boy
Never been a bitch, boy
Why I gotta hate on you?
Look at me, I'm rich, boy!
You need a steering wheel, the way you ride my dick, boy!
You say you's a go getta, go get your own shit, boy!

What is it gonna take for you motherfuckers to understand I'm the R&B boss?
Kells think he'll ride--nah, bitch, I'm just tryin' to get my point across.
Niggas hatin' on niggas, man y'all know you keep up shit!
That's why when it comes to these hits, I'm-a keep up shit!
Keep risin to the top, keep getting that money
Keep laughin' at you clowns, 'cause you clowns is funny!
I been grindin' for 17 years,  tryin' to keep the peace
But now, you motherfuckers done brought out the BEAST!

(CHORUS 2X)

(Rapping--verse 2)
When I was young, all my dreams seemed so far
Comin' up was so hard
Now I'm a rock star cause all I do is rock broads.
I stays on fire, just look at the hot cars.
You need a hit from Kells, alright, my nigga, no prob.

I'm clean but I'm dirt
I'm good but I'm the worst
I'm last and I'm the first
I'm blessed and I'm cursed

But my career is soaring while my life is a hot mess
But the depth of my struggle determines the height of my success
I BELIEVE THAT
Whatever billion dollars--tryin' to see that
Whatever billion--I'm-a be still axin' "where the weed at?"
Hit lots of clubs, take lots of shots of Patron
Hold my middle finger up, tell haters to get the fuck on

Stay shinin', boy
Stay grindin', boy
Keep these fine-ass bitches straight eyein' it, boy!
Now where you gonna hear a better name
Than 17 years in the game?
Still continuing to make it rain
And put these fools to shame...I'm a BEAST!

(CHORUS 2X)

(Conversational interlude)
Wait a minute, wait a minute, where you goin?
You ain't goin' no-motherfuckin'-where, I got more to say, bitch!  Look at me.

(Rapping--verse 3)
Y'all smile in my face and talk shit in back of me
I got the ball, I'm tryin' to shoot but y'all niggas keep hackin' me!
Could it be that I'm a king 'cause R&B been good to me?
Or could it be that you's a lame that hate the game and can't be me!

I used to rep the Chi, but now I know my worth
I still rep the Chi, but Earth is my turf, nigga!
I been around the world, 
Thrown bitches round the world,
Heard rumors round the world,
Still I'm touring round the world!

Talk about me on your records to make your sales better,
Play it backwards, it'll probably say "Kells is as cold as ever."
So don't think this is a song
It's a taste of my wrath
Back to you, nervous nigga,
I got a dick and a half!

(CHORUS 2X)

(Conversational fade)
Ha ha, I got your ass!
I would call out some motherfuckin names,
But there's so many of you motherfuckers hate me,
The song ain't motherfuckin long enough, bitch ass niggas.
Fade that shit...
Maybe on the remix, nigga, I'll call your name out.
You gotta stay tuned for that shit, I'm trying to sell records.
Bitch, I'm a businessman.
While this may not be the greatest contribution to Kells's brilliant repertoire of mackadelic nightspot realness, I have no doubt that Robert Sylvester Kelly, self-made hustla reppin' the Chi, indeed has a dick and a half.  He is, after all, a mountain, a tall tree, a swift wind sweeping the country, a river down in the valley, a vision that sees clearly, that star up in the sky, a mountain peak on high, that little bit of hope when your back's against the ropes, a giant, an eagle, a lion down in the jungle, a marching band, the people, a helping hand, a hero, a light at the end of the tunnel, and a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow...in other words, the World's Greatest!   And really, he's always hearing a bunch of old bullshit like "Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that," so it's high time he gave the haters a heaping helping of his ire.

Oh, and as for the names he didn't call?  Well, I can think of a few off the top of my head, so you don't even have to stay tuned for the remix (which might be a wait, since per his own admission, he "usually doesn't do this (remixes)".  Apart from the obvious Ne-Yo, Kells has issues with 50 Cent (who once infamously sang "there ain't nothin' wrong with pissin' on little girls" to the tune of "Bump 'n' Grind" and included the lyric "I'm pissin' on grown women, R. Kelly do it to children" on his latest album Curtis), Jay-Z (who precipitated the collapse of their Unfinished Business tour when his bodyguard maced Kells backstage at Madison Square Garden), Cam'ron (due to some sort of unauthorized remix-making), former publicist Regina Daniels (who quit and talked trash to the press when Kells boned her PERFECTLY LEGAL 20-year old daughter), and Assistant State's Attorney Shauna Boliker (the prosecutor in his impending child porn trial).  Although he has a natural inclination to ball rather than hate, I can't blame him for giving these assholes their due.   You go, Beast!  Hold that middle finger up and tell the haters to get the fuck on!

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:45 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: pancreatic cancer


Name: pancreatic cancer

DOB: N/A

Occupation: metastasis, killing people

Hometown: N/A

Current residence: Patrick Swayze's pancreas, bile ducts, and lymphatic system

Douchebaggery: I'm sorry, I just can't get over this Patrick Swayze cancer news.  The possibility that the Swayzmeister might be done in by his gallbladder-obstructing, metastasizing adenocarcinomas fills me with anxiety, dread, and despair.  I don't think I really need to say much to reiterate that pancreatic cancer sucks or convince everyone that a pancreatic tumor is at the very least a monumental douchebag.  However, I think pancreatic cancer's already loathsome reputation got worse now that it's going to deprive us of the genius that is Patrick Swayze.  Pancreatic cancer is on par with the bullet that killed Kennedy, the made-up weapons of mass destruction that were supposedly in Iraq, and Kate Hudson's entire career in terms of sheer, unadulterated douchebaggery.  Don't take my Swayze from me!  Don't take him! 

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:22 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Patrick Swayze

Name: Patrick Wayne Swayze

DOB: August 18, 1952

Occupation: actor, dancer, hot piece

Hometown: Houston, Texas

Current residence: Van Nuys, California

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was extremely distressed yesterday when I read on the gossip internets that Patrick Swayze has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and only has a few weeks to live.  I initially responded with denial, thinking there was no way this could be true.  However, a quick search of more legitimate news sources than Dlisted showed that sadly, he is indeed undergoing chemotherapy at Stanford and does indeed have pancreatic cancer, although he wouldn't confirm the short timeline the gossip pages gave him.  That doesn't make me feel very optimistic, however, because pancreatic cancer is right up there with kidney cancer, lung cancer, and metastatic melanoma on the list of cancers you absolutely don't want to get.  Pancreatic cancer has the highest fatality rate of any cancer, and has a median survival time of 3 to 6 months following diagnosis.

Although he hasn't been doing much lately, Patrick Swayze was in some of my favorite movies, and NO, I don't mean Dirty Dancing.  I hate the movie Dirty Dancing with every cell of my body.  When I was in grade school and slumber parties were the thing to do, all the girls in my class invariably wanted to watch either Dirty Dancing or Grease, and I'd take popping either film into the VCR as the cue to crawl into my sleeping bag and get some shut-eye.  If I had my way, I'd put Baby in a damn corner and never let her come out.  Better yet, fuck a corner; I'd persuade that chick there was either a dance contest or a cask of Amontillado sherry in my basement and brick her ass in for eternity so I could never be perturbed by her misadventures in learning how to mambo.  The only thing good to come out of Dirty Dancing was Patrick's dirty sex song "She's Like the Wind."  However, as much as Dirty Dancing was a cinematic travesty that every bitch on the planet save myself inexplicably loves, Patrick Swayze starred in some films that were fully robbed when they weren't nominated for Oscars.  Those movies are, of course, Red Dawn and Road House.

I've gone off about Red Dawn on more than one occasion, but much like blow jobs or pizza, discussion of this brilliant film never goes out of style.  In case you have somehow been deprived of this awesomeness, Red Dawn is a film from 1984 in which the Soviet Union invades the U.S.  We'd all be calling each other "comrade" if it weren't for Patrick Swayze, the quarterback of a Colorado town's football team, who leads his pals Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson in a resistance against the invading freedom-hating commies.  Trust that you haven't lived until you've seen Patrick Swayze decked out in forest camo plotting guerilla acts of terror against the Russians or cradling C. Thomas Howell in his arms as he dies.  I know that if I were a dying teenage insurgent, the last thing I'd want to see before succumbing to my mortal wounds would be Patrick Swayze's tear-streaked face, and the last thing I'd want to hear would be his dulcet voice singing "The Star Spangled Banner."  

While I have not discussed my fondness for Road House to the extent I have Red Dawn, I now realize that is a gross oversight on my part.  Road House totally rules.  This movie is about a rough bar in Jasper, Missouri, where Patrick Swayze--with a fresh Ph.D in philosophy from NYU--seeks employment as a bouncer, or a "cooler" as it's known in the film.  That right there is believable, because I don't know what the hell else you do with a doctorate in philosophy besides get a job as a bar.  Although Swayze's character Dalton doesn't share much insight from his scholarly work during the film, we occasionally get hints that he's privy to a deeper level of existentialist understanding (such as when he's being tended to by the town doctor, and he refuses anasthetic, telling her "Pain don't hurt.")  Otherwise, he mainly spends most of the movie kicking the asses of the various thugs working for the local Jasper crime boss.  Actually, "kicking ass" is a misnomer, because his signature move is actually ripping out a man's throat with his bare hands.  Let's just say that it is most inadvisable to tell a philosopher with expertise in manual trachea removal that you "used to fuck guys like you in prison."  Man, Road House rules so hard.

Anyway, I'm going to pray to St. Jude to intercede with the big JC on Swayze's behalf, so he might recover and go on to rectify the wrong caused by the making of Road House 2: Last Call without him by completing the trilogy with Road House 3: After Hours in epic fashion.  Get well, Patrick! 

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:10 AM 5 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

 

Experience does matter

In this election, I keep hearing a lot of the same political buzzwords/phrases.  Last night, Chris Matthews alone probably set a record for using the term "kitchen sink strategy" in any single broadcast.  Another thing I hear is a lot of prognosticating about experience and who is prepared to "answer that phone call in the White House at 3 a.m."  Both Hillary and Obama have used this expression in speeches and pundits use it every time the issue of experience comes up.  It turns out Hillary might actually come out the decisive winner when it comes to phone answering, because I just got the following visual evidence from a concerned Razzyphile that Obama may be too inexperienced to handle even that presidential duty:

Look at the clock behind Obama.  It's THREE O'CLOCK!  Hillary may be on to something when she questions whether he is "tested and ready" to answer the phone at 3 a.m., because according to this photo, he was tested, and he FAILED.  Even worse, he doesn't seem to realize he's using the phone incorrectly, because he appears to be in the midst of delivering some stirring rhetoric about hope and change.   Hillary's campaign people need to get this picture to the press STAT, because this is a winning kitchen sink strategy if I ever saw one.

[RAZZY Edit: The Razzyphile who sent me this just e-mailed advising me that this is a straight-up Photoshop job.  Damn.  I knew it was too good to be true.  That's some great Photoshopping though, on par with the picture of Harry Potter's dick that I posted awhile back.  Kudos to whoever did that.]

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:42 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Jimmy Wales


Name: Jimmy "Jimbo" Donat Wales

DOB: August 7, 1966

Occupation: founder of Wikipedia, dickhead ex-boyfriend

Hometown: Huntsville, Alabama

Current residence: St. Petersburg, Florida

Douchebaggery: Jimbo started cheating on his now-estranged wife with Canadian right-wing Fox News pundit Rachel Marsden in 2007. Unfortunately, all those years of being a married computer and finance nerd left him lacking in the How-to-Dump-a-Bitch department. Instead of acting like a mature adult and telling Rachel that they were finished via personal correspondence, he decided to break the news on Wikipedia.

That was particularly inadvisable, because Jimbo knew from dating Rachel that she doesn't respond well to being a woman scorned.  Previously, she was banging some Canadian counter-terror officer and, when that went south, claimed on her website that he leaked classified documents to her and posted pictures and correspondence between the two of them.  Jimbo was certainly aware of this because he and Rachel had a lengthy instant message conversation about getting the facts straight on her Wikipedia page, and he wanted to resolve the discrepancies about her ex issues immediately because "the last thing I want to do is take a break from fucking your brains out all night to work on your wikipedia entry :)."

Unfortunately, Jimbo conveniently forgot that Rachel has a website and she's not above using it to get back at a dipshit ex when he dumped her via Wiki, and that inspired Rachel to sell off his clothes on eBay and post some of their better smiley-face emoticon-laden IM conversations.  Among them are debates over which rooms at the Washington D.C. Doubletree have more furniture to fuck on, concerns about whether Google founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin are reading their sexy Gchats, building a "Google killing" search engine which would enable Jimbo to buy a jet they can fuck in, and the inherent seductive capabilities of South Korea's mindblowing broadband infrastructure.

I'd say Rachel was a crazy bitch, but I do this kind of stuff myself when somebody deserving of public humiliation really, REALLY pisses me off.  If some dude was enough of a bastard to inform me that we were through on a Wikipedia page, I would probably do the same thing.  Dumping someone by internet encyclopedia is a truly debased, pussified move.  Jimbo may have plenty of money from his career as a futures trader-turned-internet mogul, but clearly that doesn't buy class or balls.  If he can type things like "hellllooooooooooo sexy girl :)" then he should at least be able to compose an e-mail saying, "this isn't working out for me" or "let's just be friends."  Rachel's probably better off, because I can't imagine anyone with so little courage or consideration has a particularly large penis.  Looking at Jimbo's picture and seeing his pathetic attempts to take style points from "House, M.D.," I'm thinking he's rocking a golf pencil.  Rachel could do better.

This whole sordid affair reminds me of something I've been thinking about for some time now, specifically that you should never trust anyone so fond of using punctuation-based emoticons.  Granted, I employ this means of expression sometimes in AIM or Gchat, but I do so sparingly.  A while back, I fucked this guy who I have a work relationship with, and it was one of the more disastrous hookups I've had in a long time.  He wouldn't leave my apartment, he unloaded all sorts of personal baggage on me, he drank all my beer, he rummaged through my personal effects without permission, and while the sex was fine, by the time he left I was ready to punch him for so severely overstepping the boundaries of a drunken hook-up.  Since then, the number of :) and ;)'s in his e-mails--most of which are professional because I have ZERO interest in cultivating a personal relationship with this guy--increased exponentially.  Virtually every piece of correspondence I receive from him is peppered with statements like "maybe when you finish that project :( you'll have time to get a drink with me ;)."  I don't need you to ask me for a drink in between requesting my professional assistance with one work project or another and then qualify that proposition with a semi-colon/parenthesis meant to imply "WINK, WINK, you know what that means."  I get it.  You want a repeat roll in the hay, or at least another opportunity to pester me with bullshit that you should be telling a therapist.  Since then, I get very suspicious anytime I see a dude overusing this means of expression.  Beware the emoticon.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:40 AM 3 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John McCain (R-AZ)...AGAIN



Name: John Sidney McCain III

DOB: August 29, 1936

Occupation: U.S. senator, Republican presidential nominee

Hometown: Coco-Solo Naval Air Base

Current residence: the national stage

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Last night, John McCain clinched the Republican nomination and sent Huckabee back to Bible camp.  YES!  Not everyone was as excited about this as myself.  I spoke to my father on the phone for awhile, and when he was asking me if I was for Hillary or Obama, I said, "Dad, I've told you before: I'm voting for John McCain."

"I thought you were kidding," he said.

"No!  I love McCain, Dad!  I'm voting for McCain.  Now that he's won the nomination, I am voting McCain for sure.  Really!"

After a moment of silence, he said, "Your mother and I didn't raise you to be a Republican."  My dad says "Republican" the same way one might say "Nazi."

"I'm not!  I'm an independent!  It's just that in this election I'm voting for McCain.  I'm a libertarian."  Being a Republican in our household is tantamount to being gay in the Rev. Fred Phelps's house, and I guess I'm just not quite ready to come out.

"Then vote for the Libertarian party!"

"I can't, Dad.  I'm not for disbanding public schools.  The Libertarian party is all into that.  I'm a moderate libertarian."  My father is a public school teacher.  Besides the Iraq War, mentioning No Child Left Behind is the quickest way to work him into paroxysms of Bush hatred, so at least we could find common ground on not voting for a candidate that would put him out of a job.

"You voted for the Libertarian in the last election, Razzy," my father reminded me.

"Yes, but that's only because I couldn't stand to vote for either Kerry or Bush."  It's true that my hatred of both major party candidates in the last election caused me to vote for Michael Badnarik, skydiving badass.

"Well, no daughter of mine should be voting McCain," he said.  Luckily at that point, my father got tired of bitching at me about McCain and started complaining instead about how he couldn't become a "real" Catholic because he's too lazy to take the RCIA classes necessary to officially convert from Lutheranism, and how he has to get his gallbladder taken out.  I was relieved.

While I have no doubt that as the election draws nearer, my father and many other of my friends and loved ones are going to come down hard on me for liking John McCain, but much like McCain himself, I don't give a fuck.  My father can insinuate that I'm a disgrace to the family, Benzo can write blog posts to his heart's content about how McCain is George W. Bush 2.0, and virtually every single one of my friends can lament my going over to the Dark Side of the Force.  I love John McCain, and now it's official that I am going to get to vote for his straight-talking hotness.  And as long as Hillary and Obama continue to tear each other to pieces, by the time one of them gets the Democratic nomination, the Democrats' inability to agree, unite, and rally will per usual ensure that McCain wins the general election just like he's taken the primary circuit by storm.  JOHN!  MC!  CAIN!  JOHN! MC! CAIN! 

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:43 AM 6 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

 

It's one of those days again

I should write some bullshit about how bad Hillary is going to lose, or how awesome John McCain is, but I am so tired that I just misspelled "awesome," as a quiet night making dinner with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, HillsYes, and I'mNotRussianGoddammit turned into an early morning pounding beers and watching JerseyGirl, wasted and wearing a Smith College shirt, challenging some dude to a freestyle rapping contest. JerseyGirl got decisively owned, and I got home at 3 a.m. Anyway, there's not enough sugar-free Red Bull in the world to keep my eyes open, so I'm not going to even try writing anything coherent today. Therefore, enjoy some more of my greatest hates.

The Fucking Rules If you sleep with me, here's what NOT to do

Daily Douchebag: Gayelle Dumbest. Term for "lesbian". EVER.

Fat Girl with a Lisp by JerseyGirl An update to this story is that the eponymous Fat Girl with a Lisp called JerseyGirl's boyfriend in tears to profess her craziness. As JerseyGirl would say, CEREALLY!

Over the hump Finally I bagged me a nerd.

Daily Douchebag: Gwen Stefani I hate this bitch, and I don't think I've reiterated that lately

I'm doublin' up with them Don't play Ush and Kells for fools. They'll totally sing at you.

The Retard Next Door Kendra Wilkinson may be the stupidest human being on planet Earth. Make that the solar system.

Chingy! the pimp My dog is Too $hort.

You want offensive? I'll show you offensive. Christian children beware.

Daily Douchebag: Condoms I'm an irresponsible virologist.

Death to Criss Angel I HATE magicians.

How to be a hipster asshole, by Chloe Sevigny Step 1 is to wear stupid outfits.

I'll be back, more rested, and less hung over tomorrow.

XOBJBS,
Razzy

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:05 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, March 03, 2008

 

Have you been high today?

If not, this video LL Cool Jew sent me should do the trick:

I don't know what the hell goes on in India that inspires music videos such as this one, but I do know three things:

1. The guy in this video is a hot piece.  If George Michael and Sayid from "Lost" had a baby, it would be this dude.  And yes, I'd totally hit that.

2. The dancers in this video better not come stateside, because if they do, the Pussycat Dolls are going to be out of a job.

3. I'm going to start saying "My loony bun is fine, Benny Lava" instead of  "don't worry, I'm totally on the pill and I get tested regularly" to the honeys lucky enough to rendezvous with me in a bar bathroom not stocked with complimentary NYC condoms.

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:04 AM 3 Comments Links to this post
 

Pour out some Frapp for Britney and Adnan

The Sun reports that at last, the greatest romance of our age has come to a close.  It seems that the legendary Ms. Britney Spears finally gave Adnan Ghalib his walking papers after discovering sexy texts from some other skank on Adnan's iPhone:
Britney ditches her British lover
By EMILY SMITH
US Editor

RAGING BRITNEY SPEARS hurled her British lover’s new £300 iPhone into her POOL after finding saucy texts on it from another woman.

She dumped paparazzi photographer ADNAN GHALIB following a blazing row, convinced he was cheating on her.

But before she ordered him from her home in the Hollywood hills, she grabbed the Apple gadget and threw it in the water.

An insider told how Toxic singer Britney, 26, confronted Brummie Adnan after two video clips showing him out with mystery girls were posted on internet blogs.

In one, he was caught briefly holding hands with a woman as they left a restaurant.

Britney then checked his iPhone — and saw the sexy texts.

The insider said: “There were about a dozen from one girl, all sent on one day.

“They were pretty saucy stuff with sexual references — certainly not the sort you’d send to just a friend.

“Britney lost it and started yelling.

“She was demanding to know who sent the texts and shouting, ‘What’s this about? You’re cheating on me’.

“Adnan said the girl was just a friend, but Britney got more and more angry. Then she told him, ‘That’s it. It’s over’.

IT was a heart-warming love story for our time.

Adnan fell for pop princess Britney the moment he set eyes on her through his long lens - then charmed his way into her life.

But The Sun says she is better off without him. Adnan was one low-life frog who was never going to turn into a prince.

“Just before she told Adnan to go, she took the phone and threw it in the pool right in front of him. He didn’t even bother trying to get it out of the water.”

Insiders say Britney is adamant she is finished with smooth-talking Adnan, 35, who was still with his wife when he started romancing Britney late last year.

But he persuaded the singer to see him again after wooing her with love notes and a string of romantic texts.
I love reading British gossip just because there's always terms that are strange--and thus hilarious--to me, like "blazing row" and "Brummie."  Seriously, what the hell does "Brummie" mean?  I don't recall ever seeing or hearing that from one of my guides to British-speak (Harry Potter books, British people I know, and Morrissey songs).  "Brummie" has an even less obvious meaning than "swotty," a term that confounded me for years until my friend Rack's boyfriend explained it to me.

Anyway, I say kudos to Britney for losing her Brit, because he was clearly no good.  For starters, he has the dumbest facial hair I've ever seen.  

It looks at best like he's playing a date rapist in a Lifetime movie, and at worst that he had a stripper's pussy transplanted onto his chin.  Second, it's never a good idea to mess around with married guys.  I haven't ever actually gotten with a married guy (to my knowledge), but I've gotten together with some guys who were in common-law-type marriages and it does nothing but lead to trouble and heartache.  And finally, when you are Britney Spears, having repeated psychotic breaks while dating a fucking sleazebag paparazzo is probably not the road to privately recovering one's mental faculties (assuming said mental faculties existed in the first place).

Furthermore, I'd never take back any asshole who sent me this note trying to patch things up (in spite of the fact that Adnan's cursive penmanship looks disturbingly like my own):

Milky bowl of soup?!  GROSS!  I love me some Campbell's Cream of Mushroom as much as the next piece of Puyallup trash, but I don't want to be getting notes about it unless said note is a recipe for tuna casserole or Crock Pot pork chops.   That's definitely not the way for a greasy, soul-pubed paparazzo to get back with me after I discovered his infidelities via "saucy" texts.  I hope Britney has some dignity, but that's like hoping Caesar and Chingy! will finish my thesis project for me.  No sense wasting time with idle and totally improbable fantasies.  

Brit and Adnan will be sharing a milky bowl of soup for the photographic delight of the tabs by end of business today.  Trust.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:19 AM 1 Comments Links to this post
 

Surrender Razzy

Today I got an e-mail from a new Razzyphile who just discovered my site:
From: Bongo Hercules (bongohercules@freeemailplace.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: what's cookin' good lookin'?

Hi there! I'd like to audition for your rejects page! I'm old!  I'm not fat or bald, or married, but I DO have a lot of disgusting body hair and I can probably work up a soul-curdling grin.

Wanna fuck me yet?

I'd have sent a picture, but I don't have any babies around. What if I take a picture of my dick next to a cabbage patch doll?

Sorry. I think I'm funny.
What I really wrote you about is I noticed your picture with the strap-on and wanted to clue you on some internetty stuff that might be useful to you.
First, the double-strap harness with thigh straps will give you better control than those panty looking things with the thin vinyl straps. The vacu-lock system is the most relied upon, and you can get it from jt's stockroom,(http://www.stockroom.com/) and see it in action, with dozens of variants on doggystyle girl-girl sex at http://ultimatesurrender.com.

If you've never heard of ultimate surrender, it's a site where girls wrestle and then the winner fucks the loser. If you ask me, this thing has prime-time ESPN written all over it. Me and some dyke friends follow it religiously, and they seem to like it as long as the femmy porn-star girls lose. When the big dykey girls lose they get uncomfortable for some reason. Trust me, it's at least as cool as Battlebots. (Not what I'd call erotic, exactly, but it has a warped charm. It's sort of what I think cheerleader camp ought to be...)
I guess now would be a good time to tell everyone that I figured out how to bang a broad doggystyle with my strap-on.  I appreciated all the good advice I got, and it turns out all I needed was a little practice, which my special girlfriends have been more than gracious about giving me opportunities to do.  In spite of now being a slightly more experienced dilettante in the field of fake penis-fucking, I always am happy to watch professionals in action and "at least as cool as Battlebots" is enough of a selling point for a nerd like myself, so I went over to Ultimate Surrender to check it out.

Ah, of course.  Ultimate Surrender is run by kink.com.  Kink.com is an online porn production company known for running various fetish porn sites.  Among their sites are Fuckingmachines.com (women get penetrated in every orifice by a variety of power tools modified with sex toys ie: "the drilldo"), Wiredpussy.com (women get electrodes hooked up to their snatches and shocked), Meninpain.com (women beat the shit out of male submissives), and Hogtied.com (pretty self-explanatory).  Kink.com is also notorious in the porn industry for frightening talent out of the business by mistreating them horribly.  I would argue in kink.com's defense that any would-be porn skank shooting for a site called wiredpussy.com shouldn't be surprised when they break out the alligator clips and the car battery, but I digress.  Compared to the rest of kink.com's offerings, Ultimate Surrender is pretty tame.

Anyway, I didn't want to pay to watch an Ultimate Surrender match in its entirety, but I was disappointed with what I did see.  First, there was less strap-on action than I would have liked (because let's face it, the whole I-eat-you-out-you-eat-me-out paradigm of lesbian porn is booooooooorrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnnggggg), and what I did see was kind of ridiculous.  It seems like wrestling while wearing a strap-on would be cumbersome and put the competitor as a disadvantage.  I have zero experience in wrestling apart from watching WWE and having exuberant sex with multiple position changes, so my first order of business if I were going twat-to-twat with an experienced butch porn wrestler like "Vendetta," "Spartica," or "The Hungarian Nightmare" would be to grab that bitch by the fake cock and start swinging her around the ring.  

Furthermore, it seems like fucking the loser is less of a prize than one would imagine.  Shouldn't the loser have to fuck the winner?  The winner has to do all the work!  Ever since I started hitting the ladies with my strap-on, I have a newfound respect for men.  Fucking someone with a penis is hard work!  If I won a vicious lesbian wrestling match and my prize was to throw my back out giving orgasms to some skank I defeated, I'd withdraw from competition.  Those orgasms should be mine!  That's almost worse than winning "Flavor of Love" and being awarded with a cheap-ass grill and the opportunity to sit on shriveled hood-hobbit dick.  The Ultimate Surrender seems like the Ultimate Rip-off as far as I am concerned.

That said, I do agree with Bongo Hercules that this should be on ESPN.  It might need a little tweaking to suit my taste, but I'll take hardcore lezzie wrassling over those poker tournaments they have on ad nauseum any day.  Besides, it's "non-scripted," so it probably qualifies as a sport rather than "sports entertainment" like WWE.  And there should be more lesbians on TV not named "Ellen" or "Rosie" anyway.  Call your cable company today and demand "Ultimate Surrender."  Hell, it's got at least as good a chance of getting on cable as the NFL Network.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:10 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Pfu Ultra II


Name: Pfu Ultra II

DOB: 2007

Occupation: high-fidelity, hot start long PCR

Hometown: Stratagene HQ, La Jolla, California

Current residence: the "PCR" box in my lab's non-freeze/thaw -20 freezer

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I know it's lame to go off on science stuff here, but I've been working a lot and frankly, my brain doesn't have too much room for anything not related to rhinovirus, so you'll all just have to deal with it.  I've been trying to clone this damn rhinovirus for the past year and a half with no success.  I've subcloned it (cloned pieces of it), but have never been able to put the parts together because there are just no polymerases sexy enough to manage the overlap PCR.  Cloning this virus intact is something I absolutely have to do in order to graduate, and I've been beating my head against the wall in frustration at my inability to do so.  Okay, I haven't actually beaten it against the wall, but I did beat it on my PI's desk one time.

My PI (boss/advisor/mentor) isn't always the most helpful, because one of his claims to fame is being the first person to clone a virus...ever.  He cloned polio in the late 70s in one of the most supremely lucky moves of all time.  That was before PCR was invented, so he did everything the hard, old-school way, and he loves to remind me of his success back when molecular biology technology was limited to restriction enzymes and mouth-pipetting was still common laboratory practice.  I won't go into what PCR is (if you want to know, read Wikipedia or watch the awesome Bio-Rad "Scientists for Better PCR" video), but it makes things a lot easier (assuming you can get it to work).  He just did a shitload of RT and second-strand synthesis, and was fortunate enough to clone the viral genome behind a cryptic promoter sequence in the vector he chose.  Not that any of you care about what that means, but let me just say that it's EXTREMELY lucky he got it to work the first time.  He got a Nature paper for his efforts.  Still, every time I go into his office to tell him about my latest failure to clone rhinovirus 1A, I feel like a total dumbass since I have all these modern technologies at my disposal which ostensibly should make this easier.  I have PCR, I have fancy super-competent cells, I have sequencing on demand, and I have the world pioneer at virus cloning giving me daily advice, and I still haven't been able to do this.  And then came Pfu Ultra II.

Granted, I've been fucking around with Pfu Ultra II for a few months, and I still haven't managed to clone the entire thing intact, but that was primarily because I was busy optimizing the PCR conditions and ran into trouble programming the decidedly user-unfriendly gradient thermal cycler in our lab.  Now that I've got that ironed out, I am cautiously optimistic that TODAY I will finally achieve what I've been trying for months to do: I WILL get an intact RV1A genome into pUC19!  I wouldn't have been able to do this without Pfu Ultra II.

Without going into too much boring science detail, Pfu Ultra II enables me to amplify large PCR products like the RV1A genome (7.1 kb) with no mistakes in less than four hours.  Considering that when I used to do this with Pfu Ultra I, it took over twenty hours and more often than not didn't work because the high level of secondary structure in the viral genome would stall the polymerase.  Luckily, Stratagene's nerds improved the polymerase and called the new, better version Pfu Ultra II, and now I'm one ligation away from rocking rhinovirus 1A's bitch-ass straight into a cloning vector where it belongs.  This alone won't help me graduate, but it will help rectify my reputation as our lab's least competent cloner.  Nobody can touch my skills at mouse dissection, primary cell culture, immunology in general, and flow cytometry, but I'm like the George W. Bush of cloning (I spend a lot of money, talk a lot of shit, and still fail at it).  Thanks to Pfu Ultra II, that reputation is about to improve dramatically and all the haters in lab are about to get their comeuppance when I'm the first of our extant grad students to clone a virus from scratch.  Okay, there aren't really "haters," but J-Sexy, who routinely makes all these complicated constructs that involve ten-way PCRs, will be impressed enough to say "mmm hmm" approvingly.

Yeah, Pfu Ultra II!  You go with that sexy low mutation rate, high processivity, and improved yield!  Hottest. PCR enzyme. EVER!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:18 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Douchebag: Sara Bareilles


Name: Sara Beth Bareilles

DOB: December 7, 1979

Occupation: singer-songwriter, world-class annoyance

Hometown: Eureka, California

Current residence: Los Angeles, California

Douchebaggery: Every time I turn on the damn television, there's annoying-ass Sara Bareilles sitting at her piano in some metrosexual's living room playing that horrible "Love Song" jam, and this is supposed to make me want to join Rhapsody.  Even worse, its constant exposure on the Rhapsody commercial has for some strange reason made other people want to hear more of it.   This song was sitting pretty as the number one download on iTunes until Usher and Young Jeezy mercifully knocked it down to second place with that song about fucking--I mean "making love"--in the club.  Thank you, Tranny-Loving Twink and Snowman!  Now you just need to drop nine more hits and knock her out of the top ten and into oblivion where she belongs.

I have no idea why anyone hears this trash on the Rhapsody commercial and decide that he or she wanted more of it.  If I so much as catch an earful of "Head under-water..." I start feeling homicidal impulses.  In fact, putting her head underwater is exactly what I'd like to do to Sara Bareilles, if only because it's hard if not impossible to sing annoying songs when submerged unless your name is Ariel and you're a little mermaid.  I wish she were a little mermaid, in fact, because if she were, my first order of business would be to swing by Ursula the Sea-Witch's grotto and see about getting Sara's voice stolen. 

Sadly, Sara Bareilles is not a Disney cartoon, and I'm not a murderer, so I just have to put up with it and pray that the rest of the world catches up with my hatred of Sara Bareilles.  Wikipedia compares her to Norah Jones and Fiona Apple, and while I seriously question why the iTunes-using public decided they want to put another female singer-songwriter in the Norah Jones-Fiona Apple category on the map, at least their precedent suggests that after the music-buying public tires of her crap we'll never hear from her again.  That day cannot come soon enough.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:25 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Sunday, March 02, 2008

 

Senility encroaches

I'm rapidly losing any and all respect for Jack Nicholson. First, I learn that he has to employ the Mystery Method to pick up chicks. Now, I learn that he may be the dumbest political strategist on the planet. Put his ass in a home already.

To prove that The YouTubes isn't a phenomenon just for the kiddies, Jack Nicholson took to his iMovie software and made a video endorsing Hillary Clinton's campaign. He used clips of some of the more recognizable characters he's played throughout his storied career as one of Hollywood's biggest stars. Too bad there's just one problem: all these characters are crazy and/or homicidal!

In case you aren't familiar with these iconic movie villains:

The Joker from Tim Burton's Batman: a disfigured career criminal prone to lethally gassing innocent civilians, mutilating women with acid, randomly shooting people, and product tampering.

Jack Torrance from The Shining: an abusive, alcoholic writer who goes crazy while serving as caretaker for an isolated haunted hotel and attempts to murder his family with an axe.

Randall McMurphy from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: A convicted statutory rapist who cons his way into a mental ward, wreaks havoc, attempts to strangle the admittedly sadistic nurse, and winds up lobotomized.

Col. Nathan Jessep from A Few Good Men: A USMC commander who conspires to murder a disgruntled whistle-blowing soldier.

This just testifies to the combined arrogance and senility of Hollywood A-listers like Jack Nicholson and Rob Reiner, who apparently helped put this little video together. Either they think Jack Nicholson's geriatric star power is sufficient to make their audience forget that when Jack Torrance says, "Things could be better, Lloyd," he's actually talking about hacking his family to death to a hallucinatory bartender encouraging him to fall off the wagon, or that Americans are just too stupid to notice. I guess Jack Nicholson couldn't find out-of-context clips from Something's Gotta Give or The Bucket List that would have the same stirring rhetorical chutzpah as those from movies where he portrayed homicidal maniacs. Jack Nicholson should spend the twilight of his life doing what he does best: banging broads a half-century his junior, constitutively wearing sunglasses, and going to Laker games. Stay out of politics and succumb to your dementia with some dignity!

Although on the bright side, if anything just put a nail in Hillary's coffin, this is it. Obama has Oprah stumping for him, and Hillary has Hollywood's greatest evildoers encouraging the American moviegoing public to vote for her. Obama wins.

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:00 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

Stick a fork in her

...because Hillary Clinton is DONE. Last night she went on "Saturday Night Live" in a desperate last-ditch attempt to court votes before Tuesday's primaries. This bitch will be withdrawing Tuesday night...TRUST!

Anyway, I guess I give some props to Senator Clinton for actually laughing at herself a little bit, but that's the only good thing I can say about this skit. "Saturday Night Live" is tanking harder than Hillary's bid for the Democratic nomination. They haven't had anything funny since the "Dick in a Box" song.

I didn't laugh once during this entire ordeal, and "ordeal" is an appropriate term, because I literally felt as though I was summoning reserves of courage I didn't know I had to endure the entire thing. Tim Russert and Brian Williams's actual debate coverage is more entertaining than this supposedly hilarious spoof on the same. I was hanging on to the hope that "okay, SOMETHING funny is going to happen...any time now...," only to have that hope dashed when the real Hillary Clinton came on and proceeded to make more lame jokes. At that point I just resigned myself to having lost nine minutes and 47 seconds of my life.

If there's anything worse than Hillary whining about being screwed over by the woman-hating media, it's watching her attempt pitifully to lampoon it as an excuse to say "Live from New York, it's SATURDAY NIGHT!" The only thing that could make me like this is if she follows it up with a campaign withdrawal speech on Tuesday along the lines of, "Live from Texas/Ohio, it's CONGRATULATIONS, SENATOR OBAMA!"

I am not amused.

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# posted by Razzy @ 11:30 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

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