Wednesday, April 30, 2008
On a plane
My apologies yet again for slacking on my Razzified pimping. It's currently 5:30 a.m. and I'm in deep mourning as I mentally prepare myself to depart the beloved P-N-Dub with its rain, salmon, delicious beers, and proliferation of Starbucks. I'm really sad because this trip was so short, and because I didn't get a chance to go to Taco Time. I'm going to have to make a special trip back here this summer just to get intimate with a crisp beef burrito and a medium Mexi-Fry. It's like deep-fried cumin-spiced crack, and I'm not even kidding about that.
Anyway, I'd write on the plane, but dumb stupid dumb American Airlines doesn't have wireless internets access from 30,000 feet over the midwest, so alas. Be back tomorrow, honeys.
Anyway, I'd write on the plane, but dumb stupid dumb American Airlines doesn't have wireless internets access from 30,000 feet over the midwest, so alas. Be back tomorrow, honeys.
Labels: excuses
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Bellarmine Crab Feed
DOB: ???--my mother has had tickets since the 80s
Occupation: being totally awesome
Hometown: Names Gym, Bellarmine Prep, Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: same and in infamy
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Four reasons:
1. All-you-can-eat Orange Gold from the Bering Sea (which, in turn, usually reminds me of the hotness that is Captain Sig Hansen of the mighty F/V Northwestern screaming about the crab count and generally turning me on like it's his job)
2. All-you-can-drink beer
3. Seeing my junior year honors American lit teacher who is a HOT PIECE
4. I almost always get laid afterward, and this year was no exception
The Crab Feed is an annual fundraiser for my high school's Booster Athletic Fund, and I am so smitten with it that I fly 3,000 miles every year just to attend. The Feed is such a must-attend that literally you have to wait for people to die to get tickets. Luckily, my mom has had a table for 18 secured since the 80s. Therefore I am fortunate to reap the benefits of my family's connections.
In addition to the fact that I have a virtually limitless appetite for crab, beer, and the teacher who taught me to appreciate Hemingway, the Crab Feed is a veritable cornucopia of ass-getting for me. As I've shamelessly bragged about mentioned, in years past I've banged former high school classmates and had threesomes after the Feed. This year we actually left the event to bar-hop without picking up any obvious sex partners. Fortunately, Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer brought along one of their law school friends, and I racked up yet another lucky barrister on my list of conquests. I'm sure the Jesuit priests who run my high school are very, very proud to have produced an "educated for life" graduate like myself. As usual, the Crab Feed is awesome in every possible way. I already can't wait until next spring.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub
Daily Douchebag: ME again and as usual
DOB: November 17, 1978
Occupation: liking children against my better judgment and my inherent instincts
Hometown: Puyallup, Washington
Current residence: Puyallup, Washington until tomorrow
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, I visited my friend M-Boner so I could meet her new baby. My other friend from high school, Bostonphile, came over with her new baby, too, so it was baby central. At some point, my friend TAFKAMA called me to make a lunch date for today, and I mentioned that the babies were cute.
"Are you kidding? Babies suck," he said.
"Yeah, well M-Boner's kid is well-behaved and seems to like me," I replied. This is true. M-Boner's baby woke up and started fussing while M-Boner was on the phone, and I went to pick her up and she not only stopped crying, she immediately grabbed at my boobs. Wouldn't be the first time a cute girl has tried to put her mouth on my titties, but that's another story.
"Your icy child-hating heart is melting!" TAFKAMA exclaimed in alarm.
"Well, I'm like M-Boner's sister, so that sort of makes her baby like my niece," I replied. "I guess I like her because she's more like family."
"You should douchebag YOURSELF tomorrow for liking babies," he said scornfully.
So, here it is. Despite the fact that I continue to hate kids in general and on principle, I now know there are at least two I don't loathe. Plus, I taught M-Boner and Bostonphile's kids how to say "motherfucking cocksucker" and "lick my twat." Well, they at least seemed amused while I was telling them. They're only three months old, so they're not quite as adept at cursing as I would hope yet, but I expect they'll grow into it. M-Boner's baby really loved it when I was bumping "Double Up" by Robert Sylvester Kelly in my parents' Prius. I expect that once she learns to talk, the first words out of her mouth will be either "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braids my hair" or "it's three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper." That's my kind of kid.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, M-Boner, oh the horror, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist
Monday, April 28, 2008
I suck
Okay, I was getting started on my morning bloggery, but then I got to Gchatting with LL Cool Jew, which led to me catching up on some e-mailing, which led to me dicking around on the internets, and thanks to the scotch I was drinking with MillerTime last night at Puyallup's ultimate nightspot (the Roadhouse Tavern), I'm feeling pretty unmotivated to do anything besides read the excellent Tacoma News Tribune's coverage of the Seahawks' draft picks and dig through my parents' fridge.
Now my dear friend M-Boner just called to invite me to her home in Bothell so I can ogle her new baby. Bothell is not close to Puyallup, so I've got to get a move on. Therefore, I'm taking the day off from Dude Hitting and Douchebagging. For all those hardcore Razzyphiles eagerly awaiting news of all the debauchery I've been getting up to on this trip to the P-N-Dub, rest assured that I did extend my streak of post-Crab Feed ass-getting to three years and I'll relate the whole sordid tale here soon. Well, it's actually not that sordid, since I just effed a dude while drunk and that's about as unusual as brushing my teeth or watching Bev Niner DVDs. But I'll relate it nonetheless. In the meantime, my apologies for not promulgating as much useless bullshit as usual, but whatevs. I'm on vacation. Maybe some tits will make up for my shameless neglect of my bloggity duties:
Labels: excuses, nudity, Razzification
Friday, April 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sam from Samcast
DOB: ???
Occupation: running the weather game like what on his new METEOROLOGY BLOG
Hometown: Duluth, Minnesota
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, I don't, because Sam is married to a friend of mine and breaking up my friends' marriages is not how I roll. I may be a depraved slut but I'm not that despicable. However, I would like to get lots of HITS for that hotness. Though he currently puts food on the table slinging pants at Bloomingdale's, Sam is a trained weatherman. He has a bachelor of science or something in meteorology. No joke!
So to keep his weather-predicting skills fresh and sharp, he started a weather blog and is looking for some regular readers. He will give you customized forecasts by request! I wanted to know what I can expect the weather here in the beautiful P-N-Dub to be like during my visit here (particularly since my friends and family here tell me that it's been ranging from 80 degrees to snowing over the past week and a half, a smorgasboard of weather conditions that are pretty typical for spring in the northwest), and he was kind enough to oblige.
Seattle: It looks like Seattle should be nice this weekend. Saturday looks ok, although rain is a bit more likely on Sunday and Monday as some good ol' Pacific moisture rolls in. I know I know, I'm really going out on a limb forecasting rain in Seattle. Temps ok, highs in the 60s lows in the 40s. Let me know how I do!
Well, so far, the weather is not too shabby for spring in the P-N-Dub. As I mentioned above, we expect the unexpected, as anything from sweltering heat to hailstorms can occur during April around here. It's partly cloudy, but there's some sunshine peeking through, temperatures are in the 60s as predicted, and I can actually see Mt. Rainier from the end of my parents' street. It's not wearing a hat, which invariably means that rain is on the way, but if Sam's forecast is right, it should be by tomorrow. I'll let him know.
Anyway, you should go visit Sam's blog and ask him for a forecast of your very own. Sam is a funny guy and let's face it...who wouldn't want their own by-request meteorologist? He's like a DJ but instead of spinning your favorite club-bangers, he's rocking out your own personalized weather report! Hook a dude up with some blog patronage. GO! GO! GO!
Anyway, you should go visit Sam's blog and ask him for a forecast of your very own. Sam is a funny guy and let's face it...who wouldn't want their own by-request meteorologist? He's like a DJ but instead of spinning your favorite club-bangers, he's rocking out your own personalized weather report! Hook a dude up with some blog patronage. GO! GO! GO!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, down with OPB (other people's blogs), P-N-Dub
Daily Douchebag: Hilary Duff
DOB: September 28, 1987
Occupation: former tween idol, current destroyer and usurper of the best show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210"
Hometown: Houston, Texas
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: I haven't had much occasion to see any of the trash Hilary Duff has produced since I don't watch Nickelodeon, don't listen to Z100, and don't watch movies about dance contests, singing contests, singing/dancing contests, and/or horses. However, now it appears that I'm going to be forced to see Hilary in action since Dlisted is reporting that she's going to be playing the "Brenda Walsh" of the highly anticipated new remake of "Beverly Hills, 90210"!
If there's one name that does NOT spring to mind when I think "reincarnation of Shannen Doherty at the peak of her bitchery," it's Hilary Duff. There is no way Hilary Duff can bring the same passionate rage to lines like "Look, I hate you both! Never talk to me again!" Furthermore, there's no way Hilary can flawlessly execute a convincing French or Brooklyn-ish accent like the inimitable Ms. Doherty. In fact, there's no way Hilary Duff will be able to pull off any of the great scenes that a complex character like Brenda Walsh must be able to do. For example, she will not be able to overcome her ineptitude at waitressing by reimagining herself as the saucy Laverne:
She will not be able to adequately fake fear when confronted with Dylan's drinking and subsequent flowerpot-smashing outside the Bel Age Hotel:
Or when robbed at gunpoint at the Peach Pit:
Or when getting her benign breast lump biopsied:
She will not be able to adequately capture the heat of losing your virginity to a hot piece like Dylan McKay at the Spring Dance:
She will not be able to upstage a hot cougar MILF like Jackie Taylor as an inexplicable bridesmaid at her wedding:
She will not be able to regulate when she finds out that her boyfriend brought some skank named Stacy to Baja with him on his last Mexican surfing vacation:
She will not be able to use her sex appeal, as well as her top-notch acting skills and Southern accent fakery, to secure the role of Maggie the Cat in Roy Randolph's California University production of Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof:
Hilary Duff just doesn't have the acting chops to capture the wide range of emotion needed for a complex character like Brenda Walsh, from the tears to the hot teen sex scenes to the moral self-righteousness.
Send that horse Hilary back to the barn and find someone with a sufficient caliber of bitchiness to be the new Brenda.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Douchebag, oh the horror, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, TV
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Where my Jews at?
To those Razzyphiles who are members of the tribe, I wish to extend my fondest, warmest, gushiest Passover wishes to you and your families. I meant to pass this along last Saturday, but being the ignorant, self-involved shikse that I am, I forgot. Besides, I was distracted by the Pope being here in NYC, and if you ask my Aunt Jesus anyway, we Catholics worship our Papal Lord atop his throne at the Holy See (along with all those idolatrous saints). So please forgive my tardiness in giving a shout-out to God's chosen people.
To make up for my lateness, I thought I would share Passover greetings sent to me by one of my Razzyphiles, L&L. The second "L" in L&L's name stands for "Lamont," her (fucking adorable) French bulldog. If Lamont lived in NYC rather than Canada, I suspect he and Chingy! would become fast friends on the basis of their mutual disgusting stankness, and the fact that Lamont pulls shit like this:
Well, L&L appropriated Lamont to celebrate Passover via some cute-ass Photoshopping, and I thought I would share in celebration. L'chaim, Jewish Razzyphiles!
Labels: Dear God, doggity style, Razzyphiles
Just a little patience
People who don't watch "Lost" are probably reading today's Daily Dude/Douchebag posts and thinking, "Ugh, move on to topics I care about." Unfortunately, today I don't have much time for useless bullshit because I have about ten million things to do. The usual Razzy-type errands: re-up birth control pill prescription, bust out some virology real quick, pack six days worth of diverse clothes suitable for the wide range of weather conditions I might encounter during spring in the great Pacific Northwest, deal with dogsitting issues, etc. Unlike my usual routine, I can't just put things off for another day because my deadline is 4:45 p.m. for finishing everything up. Actually, my deadline is about 2 p.m., which is when I have to hop the A train in order to get to JFK in time for my 4:45 p.m. flight to Sea-Tac. That's right, I'm headed back to the P-N-Dub today because it's CRAB FEED SEASON!!!
Longtime Razzyphiles may recall the tales of Crab Feeds past. Last year following the crab feed, I had a threesome. The year before that, I nightcapped the Crab Feed by fucking the former quarterback of my high school football team on my girl MillerTime's living room couch. Who knows what kind of adventures this year's feed will hold? An all-you-can-consume orgy of crab legs and beer held in the gym at my high school alma mater is rife with potential for post-feed debauchery. No, seriously, it is! Plus, I'll be there for almost a week and that's plenty of time to bang childhood friends, consume Vitamin R in copious quantities, and generally raise hell. So please be patient if I'm not as on top of moderating comments or crafting useless bullshit as prolifically as normal. I'll be back to form in a day or two, hopefully with some quality stories to share.
Labels: excuses, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: "Lost"
DOB: 2004
Occupation: being simultaneously addictive and completely aggravating
Hometown: Oahu, Hawaii
Current residence: new episodes return to TV tonight at 10 p.m.
Douchebaggery: LL Cool Jew was watching "Lost" season 3 DVDs, and got to chatting with me about it the other day:
LL Cool Jew: so do you still watch "lost"?
Razzy: yes
LL Cool Jew: it pisses me off
LL Cool Jew: but it's addictive
Razzy: i know
Razzy: season 2 sucked balls
Razzy: but season 3 gets better
Razzy: season 4 has mad dramz too
Razzy: sayid the hit man! (swooooon)
LL Cool Jew: i am trying to be patient
Razzy: i know some of it really drags
LL Cool Jew: god i frickin LOVE sayid
Razzy: he is SO FUCKING HOT
LL Cool Jew: he is so the fire
Razzy: i would hit that in a hot second
LL Cool Jew: the FIRE
LL Cool Jew: he's married to someone famous
LL Cool Jew: an older woman
Razzy:barbara hershey
LL Cool Jew: YES!
Razzy: i have wiki-stalked him
LL Cool Jew: have you daily duded him?
Razzy: sayid looooooooves blondes
Razzy: NO but i will!
LL Cool Jew: i mean, i am mostly a lesbian
LL Cool Jew: but he definitely falls into my 5 percent window
LL Cool Jew: esp with the wifebeater, backpack and rifle
Razzy: i don't know how anyone would NOT find sayid hot
Razzy: he really rules the beater
Razzy: and the perpetually wet jhericurl
LL Cool Jew: every time there's yet another jack-back i'm like
Razzy: NO! MORE SAYID!
LL Cool Jew: MORE IRAQI TORTURE INTERROGATIONS PLEASE
Razzy: yes! YES!
Razzy: god, if you want to know jack's background
Razzy: just watch old "party of five" episodes
LL Cool Jew: srsly
LL Cool Jew: sick of jack
LL Cool Jew: sick of kate
Razzy: HATE KATE
LL Cool Jew: only want to know who the others are and how they got there
LL Cool Jew: period
LL Cool Jew: end
LL Cool Jew: sick of polar bears
LL Cool Jew: sick of black smoke
LL Cool Jew: want only hatches and others
Razzy: well you find out a lot more about the others and DHARMA and all that
Razzy: wait until season 4
Razzy: then there's the "freighter"
Razzy: and they're more sinister than the others
LL Cool Jew: "the freighter"?
LL Cool Jew: WHAT?
Razzy: it's at the end of season 3
LL Cool Jew: there are other more sinister others????
Razzy: you'll see
Razzy: YES!
LL Cool Jew: NO
Razzy: from the outside world!
LL Cool Jew: what could be scarier than ben???
Razzy: ohhhhhh they're scarier
Razzy: and there's all sorts of sketchiness with the other freighter people too
Razzy: and the others hate them
Razzy: the freighter is there to get ben
Razzy: they hates the others, precious
Razzy: they're super sketchy
Razzy: but i don't want to give anything away
Razzy: the freighter comes into play the last couple episodes of season 3
LL Cool Jew: OK
LL Cool Jew: i hate this
Razzy: i know you have to slog through a lot of lame shit about kate and jack and sawyer and hurley
Razzy: four characters i gives a fuck about
LL Cool Jew: hate hate hate
Razzy: even sawyer, who is kind of hot
LL Cool Jew: sawyer is boring except for what he does on the island
LL Cool Jew: backstories blow
Razzy: yeah i so don't care about his
Razzy: locke annoys me to death too
LL Cool Jew: hates them all except sayid
Razzy: my faves are sayid (duh), charlie, and sun/jin
LL Cool Jew: and i think jin and sun are kind of interesting
Razzy: i think they are both hot
LL Cool Jew: didn't care about mr eko either, glad he's dead
Razzy: i would totally have a threesome with sun and jin
Razzy: yeah mr eko was interesting at first
Razzy: but then i got bored with him
Razzy: analucia too
Razzy: and libby
Razzy: and all the tail people
LL Cool Jew: i don't even remember who half these people are
LL Cool Jew: we shoud daily dude sayid
Razzy: YES
LL Cool Jew: and douchebag the rest of the cast
Razzy: YES
Razzy: next thursday precious!
Razzy: in time for new lost episodes
LL Cool Jew: i think this is a plan
Razzy: you write something
Razzy: then i'll write something
Razzy: it will be a collabo!
LL Cool Jew: i think i am going to go ahead and write a draft now of each one
LL Cool Jew: then you add to them k?
Razzy: YES
LL Cool Jew: great minds.
LL Cool Jew never got around to writing her "Daily Dude" about Sayid, but that's okay. I'm more of a dick connoisseur than she is anyway, so that was no problem for me to handle. She did, however, write me up a solid douchebagging of the cast. I would add my two cents, except that LL Cool Jew covered most of what I was planning to say, and I have to get going today so I can run ten million errands before I hop on a plane to Seattle. So, in preparation for tonight's brand spanking new episode of "Lost," here's LL Cool Jew explaining what sucks about this show:
Why "Lost" is full of douchebags, by LL Cool Jew
BigBagel and I are big on hunkering down on the couch, drawing the shades, gathering the snacks, and watching consecutive episodes of serialized television dramas on DVD for days on end. At first, it was really fun to do this with "Lost" – but by the end of Season 2, I had forsworn the thing and I didn't care what anyone had to say about all the cool things they were learning in Season 3. I HATED Season 2 – it introduced more ludicrous conundrums without answering any of my burning questions about the Others first. I had slogged ever so patiently through soporific back-story on Jack and his ex-wife and his alcoholic father, and Kate and her dysfunctional family, with only the image of Sayid in his wife-beater and backpack to comfort me. "But THIS about the DHARMA Initiative," coworkers would protest when I told them that I had given up on "Lost" for good. "But THAT about the polar bears." My reply was always the same. "Do you know who the Others are yet?" Invariably, they would stammer, "Well, no, but we know a lot more about them…" Tut tut, I would interrupt. You don't know who the Others are yet? Then I don't give a fuck. Tell me when the series finale is on.
But unfortunately I left my cell phone charger in California last weekend and when BigBagel and I went to Circuit City for a new one, his eyes widened when we passed the display of "Lost" Season 3 DVDs. "Can we?" he pleaded. Because he is patient and dear to me, I relented. And so here we are, chest-deep in Season 3, and my love-hate relationship with "Lost" persists.
Here's what is cool about "Lost": Sayid, Jin and Sun, the hatches, and the Others. Everything else about "Lost" totally sucks and I hate it. I could give a fuck about Mr. Eko, his dead priest brother, and his demons in Nigeria and I'm super glad he's dead. I fucking hate the polar bears and I really fucking hate the black smoke. It's way too close to "magic" for comfort. I fucking hate Locke and his dull-as-rice philosophical musings about the meaning of everything. Seems like he should be one of the Others since he loves making vague yet foreboding comments all the time. I am super bored by Desmond and dismayed by his apparent ability to predict the future (one of my coworkers spilled the beans that he might actually be FROM the future, which would be bullshit too). And more than anything else, I hate constantly being ripped away from the parts of the show that are interesting – namely, the Others, and saving our heroes therefrom – to get dragged back into the punitively boring and oftentimes irrelevant pre-island lives of each member of this cast of thousands. I seriously can't imagine how some people can stand to watch this thing week to week and with commercial interruption, since watching it on DVD pisses me off so much.
The worst part is knowing that there will be at least two more seasons of this circuitous bullshit before we can finally, finally know who the Others really are. I will be ripshit if the island experience turns out to be a dream, or some form of Purgatory, or the work of aliens. There better not be a science-fictiony or magical realism explanation for all of this, or I will be super fucking pissed that I spent all this money and time watching a tropical version of "Star Trek."
Why "Lost" is full of douchebags, by LL Cool Jew
BigBagel and I are big on hunkering down on the couch, drawing the shades, gathering the snacks, and watching consecutive episodes of serialized television dramas on DVD for days on end. At first, it was really fun to do this with "Lost" – but by the end of Season 2, I had forsworn the thing and I didn't care what anyone had to say about all the cool things they were learning in Season 3. I HATED Season 2 – it introduced more ludicrous conundrums without answering any of my burning questions about the Others first. I had slogged ever so patiently through soporific back-story on Jack and his ex-wife and his alcoholic father, and Kate and her dysfunctional family, with only the image of Sayid in his wife-beater and backpack to comfort me. "But THIS about the DHARMA Initiative," coworkers would protest when I told them that I had given up on "Lost" for good. "But THAT about the polar bears." My reply was always the same. "Do you know who the Others are yet?" Invariably, they would stammer, "Well, no, but we know a lot more about them…" Tut tut, I would interrupt. You don't know who the Others are yet? Then I don't give a fuck. Tell me when the series finale is on.
But unfortunately I left my cell phone charger in California last weekend and when BigBagel and I went to Circuit City for a new one, his eyes widened when we passed the display of "Lost" Season 3 DVDs. "Can we?" he pleaded. Because he is patient and dear to me, I relented. And so here we are, chest-deep in Season 3, and my love-hate relationship with "Lost" persists.
Here's what is cool about "Lost": Sayid, Jin and Sun, the hatches, and the Others. Everything else about "Lost" totally sucks and I hate it. I could give a fuck about Mr. Eko, his dead priest brother, and his demons in Nigeria and I'm super glad he's dead. I fucking hate the polar bears and I really fucking hate the black smoke. It's way too close to "magic" for comfort. I fucking hate Locke and his dull-as-rice philosophical musings about the meaning of everything. Seems like he should be one of the Others since he loves making vague yet foreboding comments all the time. I am super bored by Desmond and dismayed by his apparent ability to predict the future (one of my coworkers spilled the beans that he might actually be FROM the future, which would be bullshit too). And more than anything else, I hate constantly being ripped away from the parts of the show that are interesting – namely, the Others, and saving our heroes therefrom – to get dragged back into the punitively boring and oftentimes irrelevant pre-island lives of each member of this cast of thousands. I seriously can't imagine how some people can stand to watch this thing week to week and with commercial interruption, since watching it on DVD pisses me off so much.
The worst part is knowing that there will be at least two more seasons of this circuitous bullshit before we can finally, finally know who the Others really are. I will be ripshit if the island experience turns out to be a dream, or some form of Purgatory, or the work of aliens. There better not be a science-fictiony or magical realism explanation for all of this, or I will be super fucking pissed that I spent all this money and time watching a tropical version of "Star Trek."
Labels: Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, Lost, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sayid from "Lost"
DOB: 1968
Occupation: doing justice to wife beaters and tropical humidity-generated jheri-curls
Hometown: Anytown, Iraq
Current residence: an international assassin-for-hire, according to season 4's "flash-forwards"
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The only thing that has kept me slogging through the somnolent pace of the past four seasons of "Lost" is not a thing, but rather a HOT ASS GUY. That guy is the former Fedayeen torturer Sayid, who looks Iraqi enough for a Briton of Indian descent. Sayid is a thoughtful, strategic, and resourceful hot piece.
No matter how tedious the Jack-Kate-Sawyer storylines get, I can always count on Sayid to burst from the jungle, his thinning wife beater sticking to his muscular man-boobs from the tropical humidity, toting a rifle and ready for action. That action can include anything from rewiring a satellite phone to low-budget castaway waterboarding to reprogramming what looks like an Apple IIe (I bet he plays one hell of an Oregon Trail game) to banging any slutty blondes in his vicinity. I don't even need Sayid to talk. He should just beat the shit out of people for promulgating enigmatic yet tedious subplots and bang random blonde chicks. That's all I need for "Lost" to be a fantastically watchable show.
I'm glad to see Sayid's preference for blondes, since that means even though I'm not on the "Lost" island and he's a fictional character, there's hope. One day I'm going to nail a guy like Sayid, and probably marry his ass. Sayid is totally a keeper, so I'm glad that I am seemingly his type: skanky, towheaded, and fully appreciative of a man who is reluctant yet skilled at the art of orthopedics-based torture methods.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Lost, TV
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Smellevision
Finally, Riskay has made a video for "Smell Yo Dick," without a doubt my favorite low-budget rap song since Lo-Key and Ayatollah's masterpiece "FEMA Check."
My only question is how Riskay wound up with such a fatass boyfriend. She's way better looking than him. She could certainly find a more jacked guy's dick to smell. When this tub of lard says, "I might break bread with one or two strippers, but that doesn't mean you need to grab my zipper," I am inclined to believe him. Breaking bread is what this guy is doing, and by "bread" I mean a sack of White Castles. Seriously, the only porking this guy is doing involves consumption of sandwiches. I notice that he wears a "Snickers" logo jacket out to the club he's allegedly "creeping" at, and I can only imagine he earned said jacket through accumulating the Snickers bar equivalent of Marlboro Miles or Camel Cash. Seriously, Riskay, bleaching his clothes and chucking his iPhone out the window are hardly necessary; just lock your fridge and he'll pay for his infidelity.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap
BS and Lil' Wayne better than Mardi Gras
I was going to visit my friend LL Cool Jew in New Orleans this year for Mardi Gras, but I had a thesis committee meeting that week and couldn't afford the inflated price of the ticket around the Crescent City's most famous holiday. Therefore, I decided to visit in early June instead. LL Cool Jew and I have been busily planning all the things we're going to do (nerd out on historical tours and, in the words of Too $hort, eating food like a motherfucking fat bitch), and yesterday she came up with yet another must-do for our agenda:
LL Cool Jew: ange?
Razzy: hey hon
Razzy: what up?
LL Cool Jew: i have to tell you something amazing
me: please do!
LL Cool Jew: there is a britney spears museum in kentwood
LL Cool Jew: we are going when you come.
Razzy: YES
Razzy: YES
Razzy: YES
Razzy: yES
Razzy: YES!
LL Cool Jew: actually, it is the kentwood historical and cultrual museum
LL Cool Jew: but it only has two exhibits
LL Cool Jew: 1) world war 2 veterans
LL Cool Jew: 2) britney spears
Razzy: and the legendary ms. britney spears
Razzy: YESSSSSSS!
LL Cool Jew: apparently they have a diorama of her childhood bedroom
Razzy: oh i can't wait!
Razzy: YES!
Razzy: i bet it's all pink
Razzy: blush and bashful
LL Cool Jew: the spearses actually gave items from britney's bedroom
LL Cool Jew: how freakshow and sick is that
Razzy: so fucking awesome
LL Cool Jew:oh yes dude
Razzy: i can't wait!
i mean, i couldn't wait already
LL Cool Jew: also there is a scale replica of the stage from her first tour
LL Cool Jew: complete with light show
Razzy: YES!
Razzy: can we dance on it?
LL Cool Jew: dude how are we going to do everything?
LL Cool Jew: we have to see teh britney spears museum
Razzy: i might have to bring some barbie hair to clip on for the occasion
Razzy: we MUST
Razzy: MUST
Razzy: MUST
LL Cool Jew: yes
LL Cool Jew: you are going to die when you see kentwood
LL Cool Jew: it is the trashiest nastiest town
Razzy: have you been?
Razzy: oh i can imagineLL Cool Jew: just driven through
Razzy: i'll probably feel right at home
Indeed, I am sure I will feel right at home in Kentwood. My hometown, after all, was featured on an episode of "My Big Redneck Wedding." Terms like "trashy" and "nasty" sound to me like "cozy" and "comfortable." Unlike Kentwood, however, Puyallup does have its own Wal-Mart. It has two of them, in fact.
LL Cool Jew: after making a wrong turn
LL Cool Jew: it doesn't even have a walmart dude
LL Cool Jew: that's why jamie lynn is going to mccomb mississippi all the time to buy her cases of dr. pepper
Razzy: jamie-lynn has to drive to the next town over to hit wal-mart with her baby daddy?
LL Cool Jew: shudder
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: and go to applebee's or TGIFridays for her b-day dinner
Razzy: too bad they don't do tours at "serenity"
Razzy: aka the Spears' "estate"
LL Cool Jew: well
LL Cool Jew: apparently at the BS museum they have Britney driving tours
Razzy: drive to serenity, then to the mccombs wal-mart, then to the sonic, then back to the BS museum?
LL Cool Jew: well we are DEFINITELY going to Sonic
LL Cool Jew: i always do
LL Cool Jew: they ain't got no Sonic in N.O.
LL Cool Jew: sadly
I know for a fact that Kentwood has a Sonic, because I have seen vintage paparazzi shots of Brit-Brit loading up on cheese dogs and peach-raspberry tea and chicken fingers or whatever the hell they have there. I have seen many Sonic commercials but I have yet to experience the culinary delights this fine establishment has to offer.
In addition to getting our Britney on, LL Cool Jew and I have another order of business to attend to during my visit: stalking my favorite Southern ass rappers. I've already demanded on several occasions to at least cruise by the Magnolia Projects in hopes of spying what Terius "Juvenile" Grey describes as "a player from the 'Nolia." The actual buildings Juvenile lived in are now abandoned, but LL Cool Jew is a good sport and has at least agreed to drive me by there. I've been getting stoked listening to New Orleans-based rappers. In this case, I was jamming to Birdman's 5-Star Stunna album.
Razzy: i'm listening to lil wayne right now!
Razzy: getting excited!
Razzy: ooooooooo can we stalk lil wayne?
LL Cool Jew: have you heard the new lollipop song?Razzy: oh yesRazzy: of courseLL Cool Jew: i don't know dude
LL Cool Jew: he scares me now
Razzy: why?
LL Cool Jew: i read this totally disturbing interview with him in XXL
Razzy: uh oh
LL Cool Jew: he is literally addicted to purple drank
LL Cool Jew: also
Razzy: well not shocked about that
LL Cool Jew: there was a story in the times-picayune recently
LL Cool Jew: about how he went back to his old middle school
LL Cool Jew: couldnt have gone back to his old high school because he did not go to high school
LL Cool Jew: and he was 30 minutes late
LL Cool Jew: and came to the school reeking of weed
LL Cool Jew: i mean, that is the school's bad for inviting him
Razzy: not shocked about that
LL Cool Jew: sure
LL Cool Jew: but at the same time
LL Cool Jew: he is like a feral animal
Razzy: well yes
Razzy: we can stalk at a safe distance
LL Cool Jew: i'll drive you by the magnolia projects
Razzy: i mean, i don't want to give him a reason to tattoo any more tears on himself
LL Cool Jew: as we've discussed
LL Cool Jew: in broad daylight
Razzy: of course
LL Cool Jew: where was lil wayne born?
Razzy: according to him, "Charity Hospital, AKA the City Zoo"
LL Cool Jew: yeah, i can drive you by there too
LL Cool Jew: it hasnt reopend since the storm
Razzy: is that where that doctor supposedly killed all those people?
LL Cool Jew:: exactly
Razzy: nice
Razzy: that makes sense that's where lil wayne came into the world
Razzy: per his wikipedia: "He was born Dwayne Michael Carter, Jr. and grew up in the Hollygrove neighborhood of New Orleans, Louisiana. Dwayne was in the gifted program at Lafayette Elementary School, and was in the drama club in middle school."
LL Cool Jew: hollygrove
LL Cool Jew: of course
Razzy: maybe he and i can bond about being in the "gifted program"...i was too!
LL Cool Jew: i've heard him namedrop hollygrove like 100 times in his jamz
Razzy: i wonder if he did mock city council in his gifted program like we did
Razzy: i'll leave out the part about how when we had to make large dioramas based on the book "The 21 Balloons"
The 21 Balloons was this book about this 19th-century fop inventor who winds up crash-landing his hot-air balloon on Krakatoa, only to discover that it's populated by a bunch of British expats running a bunch of creative ethnic restaurants. Ultimately this utopia is destroyed when Krakatoa catastrophically erupts. My gifted program spent an entire semester dissecting The 21 Balloons in the third grade.
LL Cool Jew: the perks of lil' wayne's gifted program probably included pencils
Razzy: some dumb ho (NOT ME) made an amusement park called "Krakatoa Kids Klub"
Razzy: AKA...KKK
Razzy: not joking
LL Cool Jew: head
LL Cool Jew: desk
LL Cool Jew: dude
Razzy: i questioned her inclusion into the gifted program after that
Razzy: what a dumb slag
Razzy: well, if i run info weezy f baby
Razzy: i'll ask him about his gifted program experiences
LL Cool Jew: (please say the baby)
Razzy: lol
Razzy: lol
Razzy: i'm totz listening to lil' wayne right now
Needless to say, when we're not touring the plantation on which Twelve Oaks from Gone With the Wind was based, eating various cajun-spiced invertebrates, and ogling swamp rats and gators while some guy named Butch Guchereaux (not kidding) shows us around the bayous, we're going to be enjoying the finest pop culture offerings Louisiana has to offer, bumping "Gimme More" and making that brrrrrr! sound that Birdman makes.
Labels: Britney Spears, Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, Lil' Wayne, LL Cool Jew
Olympics protestors are dumb
Awhile back, I douchebagged "Free Tibet" activists, and this inspired several pissed-off comments going off about China's human rights record and accusing me of hypocrisy, based on the notion that if I'm all "Yay, free speech!" I shouldn't call for the censorship of "Free Tibet" losers. I'd like to clarify that I wasn't calling for their censorship. I was just saying that I reserve the right to declare their protests (ie: scaling the Golden Gate Bridge to hang a big "Free Tibet" sign) stupid and fucking pointless. The protestors can continue to think that they're doing something meaningful to make the Chinese government accountable for their shabby human rights record and occupation of Tibet by whining about the Olympics, and China can keep being like "uh, fuck you, and by the way, continue to enjoy all those cheap Chinese-made products you consume like they're going out of style." In other words, way to waste time, losers. Get a real job.
Validating my theory that these protestors are morons if they think that bitching about the Olympics is going to make any headway whatsoever about the way China handles its business is this person trying in vain to raise awareness of how bad those commies are:
Uh...you mean besides this time we allowed Nazi Germany to host the Olympics?
Last time I looked, the 1936 Summer Games were held in Berlin, and yes, that sure is a swastika-rocking Hitler heiling the torch at the opening ceremonies of the XI Olympiad. Throwing the Olympics in Nazi Germany didn't stop us from delivering a good, old-fashioned American ass-kicking (by that I mean protracted, extraordinarily costly war on multiple fronts) to the Nazis three years later when they invaded Poland.
I'm not going to pay attention to some mouth-breathing idiot telling me that not watching (the disturbingly Manning-esque) Michael Phelps swim all over the competition come summer is my duty as a decent human being, when said mouth-breathing idiot's arguments against China are based on a woefully inadequate education in world history. I don't look to ignorant tools to inform myself about important global political affairs. If you want to hate on China for hosting the Olympics, then I suggest cracking a fucking book before you start making insightful comparisons with other infamously genocidal tyrannical governments.
Labels: free fucking speech, fuck Tibet, international intrigue, Olympics, politics, ranting, retard rage, sportsmen, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Judge Vincent Gaughan
Name: Hon. Vincent Gaughan
DOB: ???
Occupation: presiding over the trial of the century AKA Illinois vs. Robert Sylvester Kelly
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Chicago, Illinois
Douchebaggery: You might be wondering why I have not commented much about the pre-trial shenanigans going on with respect to the most important case (of wrongful prosecution) currently being decided in the American justice system: R. Kelly's child porn trial. I don't have much to comment on because everything that has gone on so far is shrouded in secrecy. Judge Gaughan has imposed a gag order on all the participants, and all the hearings that have gone down so far have been in a closed courtroom. Supposedly this is so none of the goings on so far will impact the potential pool of jurors.
While I absolutely want to see Kells get a fair trial, these secret hearings are bullshit. Practically the whole world knows about the content of the tape in question, and I've noticed to my deep chagrin that R. Kelly's already been convicted in the court of public opinion. Anyone can download the video from a file-sharing network (and note that you can never see the guy in the video's face in it), and that's a lot more damning than discussing whether R. Kelly's marriage to Aaliyah is admissible as evidence against him. You can go read all about how Vibe magazine outed his marriage to Aaliyah in, oh, fucking 1995! This information has been publicly available for the past THIRTEEN YEARS, and since Judge Gaughan can't put a gag order on Kells's Wikipedia page, the potential jury pool can read all about it so long as they have an internet connection.
I want to know why R. Kelly's trial isn't being subjected to the public scrutiny that is supposed to serve as a check on our justice system. So does the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun-Herald, who have filed a joint motion demanding public access to transcripts and related court documents, and a lifting of Judge Gaughan's gag order. Whether you are rooting for the acquittal or conviction of the R-uh in R&B, there ought to be some transparency concerning this highly anticipated trial. Kells was indicted five years ago! The world has been waiting to see the justice system finally weigh in on whether or not that is indeed R. Kelly getting his golden shower on. Besides, it's going to be hard enough to select a jury if Morrissey'sHair's legal analysis concerning the Pied Piper of R&B's peerless status as "the World's Greatest" is any indication. Open up this motherfucking case, Judge Gaughan, and that's real talk.
Labels: armchair barristry, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John McCain AGAIN AND AS USUAL!
DOB: August 29, 1936
Occupation: saying "who gives a fuck about Pennsylvania?"
Hometown: Coco Solo Naval Air Base, Panama Canal Zone
Current residence: sitting pretty aboard the Straight Talk Express in Inez, Kentucky watching the Democrats destroy themselves
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The last couple days the news has been abuzz with people prognosticating as to whether Hillary or Obama will win Pennsylvania. The internets tell me that Hillary won and that Obama talked trash in his concession speech, but I didn't see this because I was busy watching Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen shouting at his crew about maintaining accurate crab counts and Captain Phil falling asleep at the wheel of the F/V Cornelia Marie on "Deadliest Catch." That means Hillary lives on to further fracture the Democrats while John McCain is still tooling around in the Straight Talk Express winning over voters.
Yesterday, McCain visited Youngstown, Ohio, where he chatted about his support of NAFTA and free trade. This crowd isn't exactly what you would consider big fans of NAFTA. In the past, Democrats have visited here and suggested that they will be getting new jobs. That's why the people of Youngstown voted decisively for Hillary in that state's primary. Unlike Hillary, however, McCain rocked out some of his patented "straight talk" and basically told everyone that the economy sucks, and the steel mills are not going to reopen. Instead, McCain is going to hook everyone up with tax credits, foreclosure relief, and training in new skills. Sounds sensible to me. Then again, I'd expect nothing but sensibility from a man who took a break from talking straight to making jokes about being addicted to "The Hills."
This is why I love McCain. Unlike Hillary and Obama, who are so busy trying to tear each other down that they can barely articulate any substantive positions besides the fact that Hillary really, REALLY wants to be president and Obama is pro-hope, change, and the occasionally bitter campaign speech, McCain is out in the most economically depressed parts of America laying out his game plan. For everyone who has ever bitched about McCain's age, I would venture that he's doing a lot more to clearly explain his policies than either of the younger Democrats. Come November, McCain is taking whichever one of them down in a landslide. Trust.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, John McCain, politics
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Go Heineken!
I've usually been staunchly against environmentalism. Not because I hate the planet or enjoy pollution, but because I find environmentalists infuriatingly annoying. I about lost it when Al Gore got the Nobel Peace Prize for what LL Cool Jew called a "Chicken Little Power Point presentation." Like their demigod, Al Gore, the tree huggers of the world are insufferably pretentious about their stupid carbon footprints and the adjustments they've made in order to "go green." I resent being condescended to and lectured by people who have done little more than change a few lightbulbs and buy an extra trash can for recyclables.
Even in college, before eco-friendliness became as in vogue as it is today, my hatred of earth-lovers was well-known. I would run around turning on the house parlor lights after the "Energy Czarina" turned them off every night just to be an asshole. My ex-boyfriend Benzo once talked me into renting the movie Cannonball Run on the basis that "the bad guys are environmentalists!" Well, that, and Burt Reynolds is in it, but I digress. I've always resisted getting worked up about the environment, because no matter how much I recycle or install thermostat timers or drive hybrids, my actions aren't going to fix the hole in the ozone currently blowing up thanks to China's cheap air conditioners.
However, now I think I've finally found an environmental cause I can get behind, thanks to the continually excellent investigative work performed by the greatest newspaper in the history of journalism, the New York Post. On the Post's website this morning, I was deeply alarmed to see these grim tidings:
I've always thought climate change in the form of higher temperatures seemed like a good thing. I wouldn't complain if I could wear skirts and open-toed sandals all year long. I could care less about rising sea levels or whether the polar bears can survive warm weather (and according to "Lost," they do just fine in the tropical clime of the South Pacific), but an ecological threat to beer is something I simply cannot abide. According to the article, "high beer prices are on tap" due to "radical shifts in weather and more parched lands [are] making it harder to grow grains and hops." NOOOOOOOO!!!!
I'm already poor and I can't afford to pay more than the already ridiculous $10 a six-pack I currently cough up for my beautiful, green-bottled, Dutch poison of choice. For the first time, I think that global warming is very, VERY bad, and I'm prepared to change every lightbulb in my apartment to back this up. If the price of beer skyrockets, I'm totally screwed. My liver might actually become healthy, and I can't have that. How am I supposed to further my alcoholism without affordable beer? My world would end! As Dr. Ray Stantz said in the inimitable film Ghostbusters, "this is a crisis of Biblical proportions!"
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go organize a Save the Planet rally. Or at least a Save the Barley and Hops rally. GO GREEN! And by "green," I mean this:
Labels: alcoholism, fuck the planet, large exclamatory font, oh the horror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Justin Bobby from "The Hills"
DOB: 1983?
Occupation: model, hairstylist, "The Hills" resident asshole
Hometown: Huntington Beach, California
Current residence: the Hollywood Hills?
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Against my better judgment, Justin Bobby from "The Hills" has lured me like an unfortunate ancient Greek mariner with his siren's song of belching, shameless denial of flagrantly bad behavior, and obnoxious quips. For one thing, he seems to be the only character who doesn't give a fuck what Lauren Conrad thinks. Almost everyone else on the show seems concerned primarily with LC's mood and opinion, and a character who chooses to either ignore or insult her is a refreshing change. For another, last night he made his grand reappearance at GOA Nightclub looking like a bizarre amalgam of Shia LaBeouf and the lead singer of The Killers, and it wasn't a bad look on him. It was a considerable improvement from the long-haired homeless Jack Sparrow look he was sporting when he infamously made out with another chick at Les Deux in front of Audrina and then successfully told her, "No, I wasn't. You need to get your eyes checked."
I'm not the only one to be swayed by Justin Bobby's dirty charms. JerseyGirl and I were texting last night as we watched from our respective hovels on our mutual excitement about JB running into the ladies at GOA Nightclub:
JerseyGirl: Yes! Justin bobby!Razzy: Jb's my fave. He shd have his own showRazzy: Justin bobby looks hotJerseyGirl: He's my fave too. Lo is so annoying.
At this point, the "drama" (Justin Bobby and Heidi sitting down with Audrina at LC's table, with LC leaving in a huff) on "girls night out" wraps up and LC is busy contemplating whether or not she wants to continue living at the Villa Apartments. Luckily, the conversation about moving in together between LC and her Laguna Beach friend Lo is mercifully short and the action switches back to a dinner date between Audrina and Justin Bobby. JB lays it on thick about missing Audrina and prioritizing his life (he quit drinking...as much), because apparently he had grown lonely not giving Audrina opportunities to show her thong and ass crack while tooling around town on his bike.
Razzy: Yes! Justin bobby dinner date!Razzy: Justin bobby 4 prezJerseyGirl: He just gave her total f me eyesRazzy: And she f'd him. Trust.Razzy: "i've been riding solo" lolJerseyGirl: Soo smooth. Id do himRazzy: Lauren sux. Spencer s grossJerseyGirl: O no doubt. Justin bobby is irresistible
As far as the loathsome guys on "The Hills" go, Justin Bobby is a cut above the competition. Brody Jenner is loathsome since he seems enveloped in a cloud of obvious douchebaggery (although I'd still probably hit that) and Spencer is loathsome in a creepy, child molester way, while Justin Bobby is loathsome in a really hot and fuckable way. I'd totally let Justin Bobby ride me like his contrived unemployed wannabe rock star motorcycle and then pretend to be disgusted with myself the next day.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, The Hills, TV
Daily Douchebag: Columbia University Medical Center
DOB: 1754
Occupation: "Discover. Educate. Care. Lead." – and DEFAULT ON OUTSTANDING BILLS
Hometown: Morningside Heights, New York, New York
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Yesterday I was working in the old laboratory when the phone rang. I picked it up. "Hi, this is so-and-so from Sigma-Aldrich," said the friendly lady on the other line.
"Oh, hi," I said. I'd placed an order from them for some oligos. Oligos AKA oligonucleotides AKA primers are custom-made sequences of DNA that I use for setting up PCRs. The oligos you order are specific for the gene you're trying to amplify with PCR, so these are absolutely critical reagents for cloning.
"I just wanted to let you know that we can't ship the order you've just placed until your department reconciles the outstanding balance on their account," said the lady.
"Oh, shit," I said. "That's the business office's issue."
"I know all about it," said the lady. "They're trying to get caught up, I guess, but your department currently has over fifteen unpaid purchase orders."
"I wish there was something I could do," I said. "I really need my oligos."
"You can give me a credit card to pay for the outstanding charges," said the lady hopefully.
I laughed at first, but then realized this wasn't funny at all. Columbia was so heavily slacking on the "Accounts Payable" tip that a severely impoverished grad student to pay its bills for it was even an option was no laughing matter.
"I guess I'll just have to wait," I said.
"Believe me, I want to get this resolved as soon as possible," said the lady. "I've spent the past week on the phone with various people at Columbia. We really want to resolve this so we can continue doing business with your institution."
Oh, that's even better than being asked to personally pay off Columbia's overdue bills. Sigma-Aldrich, one of the largest chemical suppliers in the world, is considering cutting off Columbia thanks to their delinquent payment status.
Columbia is so fucking ridiculously unprofessional I am continually astounded by it. If you don't pay tuition or a course fee in a timely manner, the university will immediately put a hold on your transcripts and harass you into coughing up the money. However, if they owe you money, you better pray that they get around to paying you this century. Once Columbia owed me $900 for money I'd spent going to a virology conference, and didn't bother to cut a check for THREE FUCKING MONTHS! $900, I should add, is over half my monthly paycheck. When I complained, I was told that first there were a lot of offices that the reimbursement request had to go through, and then that the business office had just forgotten about it. Oops. They didn't even apologize.
I'm hardly surprised that Columbia is pulling the same "we'll get around to it" bullshit with the vendors they do business with. For anyone considering graduate school in the biomedical sciences, I only recommend Columbia if you want to go to a deadbeat institution that will continually interfere with your research by its complete lack of regard for conducting the most basic business.
For anyone at Columbia who is wondering why the "Coordinated Doctoral Program in the Biomedical Sciences" only got a handful of recruits accepting admission this year, I would suggest that it's because the word is finally out that the best thing about Columbia is the fancy Ivy League seal on your diploma. Otherwise, Columbia is a terrible institution that doesn't give a shit about managing its business in the most slightly competent manner, and you will pay the price in terms of your work being set back because Columbia doesn't get around to paying its fucking bills. Columbia is the deadbeat dad of research institutions. Actually it's worse, because you can at least take a deadbeat dad to court and garnish his wages. The only thing I can do about Columbia is hurry up and graduate, which I'd gladly do if the university would get around to paying $100 for my fucking oligos. COLUMBIA SUCKS.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, grad school bullshit, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, April 21, 2008
Death and the City
I was not at all excited for the new Sex and the City movie due out next month. Apart from Samantha's adventures in sluttery, I could care less about new storylines involving these superficial, ugly old broads going shoe shopping and banging ugly old dudes. However, thanks to a recent interview by the ugliest of the ugly old broads, Cynthia Nixon, I now have something to get excited about. Supposedly, one character is going to bite the big one in the new movie.
As far as I'm concerned, as long as one character is getting killed off, why not take them all out (except Samantha)? The producers have labored under the delusion that any of these characters (again, except Samantha) are likable or fun. These women are a bunch of obnoxious old shrews with little character apart from their love of overpriced footwear and their tendency to act like junior high retards regarding the men in their life. I think any of the following scenarios would be good, or to use the SatC ladies' favorite adjective--FABULOUS:
1. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha sit down to a table of cosmopolitans at some upscale lounge. Samantha goes to fuck the bartender in the bathroom and while she's gone, a meteorite crashes through the roof right onto their table, killing them instantly in a blaze of cosmic dust and shattered martini glasses.
2. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha attend a prestigious gallery opening. While Samantha is off banging some artist type in the bathroom, Mr. Big walks in with an Uzi and takes everyone out because it's the only way to get Carrie's fickle, whiny ass to quit him once and for all. Then he kills himself, both for much-needed closure and because he's way hotter when he's Detective Mike Logan on various "Law and Order" franchises.
3. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go shoe shopping. While Samantha steps out of the Manolo Blahnik store to bang some random guy in the bathroom of the Starbucks next door, a freak shelf collapse kills the remaining three women via impalement by stiletto heels.
4. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha visit the spa. While Samantha is banging one of the facial technicians, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are boiled to death when the sauna's thermostat goes inexplicably haywire.
5. Carrie goes bankrupt due to spending far beyond the means of an unemployed columnist, gets evicted from her Upper East Side apartment, and contracts drug-resistant tuberculosis. While crashing with Charlotte and Miranda, she gives them the consumption as well, and they all die. Samantha is spared because she is too fabulous to hang out with Carrie after she joins the ranks of the homeless, and she's probably banging some dude in a bathroom somewhere.
6. Miranda finally nags Steve to his breaking point. While they are at some function where Samantha is banging some dude in the bathroom, Steve walks in with a bomb strapped to his chest and blows the place up. Only the bathroom where Samantha is skanking it up survives the explosion.
7. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha are forced to take the subway somewhere. Samantha changes her mind upon venturing into the dirty subterranean realm of the common folk and retreats to a nearby bathroom where she bangs some guy. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are unaccustomed to how the subway works, and accidentally step into the path of an oncoming F train, thinking that's how they are supposed to board it.
8. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go to a sushi restaurant. While Samantha is banging the sake delivery man in the bathroom, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda eat an improperly cut piece of blowfish and die when their hearts explode. Actually, I don't know if improperly cut blowfish really makes your heart explode, but that happened on an episode of "The Simpsons" once, so it's likely.
9. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha throw a botox party. Samantha is banging the plastic surgeon in the bathroom while Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda all die from acute botulinum poisoning thanks to the massive amounts of botox required to youth up their craggy-ass faces.
10. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha take a road trip to the Hamptons. Upon arrival, Samantha promptly gets down to business banging the pool boy at their rental. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda just spontaneously drop dead because they suck.
However this goes down, it's going to be awesome. Anything that will put these hags out of their misery and relegate them to late-night reruns on TBS where they belong is right on in my book.
Labels: movies, people who died, retard rage, Sex and the City
Mr. and Mrs. FAS Manning
Usually I could care less about celebrity weddings, but the esteemed New York Post has just alerted me to the fact that the NFL's most likable developmentally disabled quarterback tied the knot this weekend in Mexico with his college sweetheart. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning:
The Post article includes a lot of the typical lame matrimonial coverage about the cut and color of the bridesmaid dresses and how much the silverware they registered for costs, and I would have gotten bored if not for the photo gallery featuring pictures of FAS looking confused and disoriented as usual. Well, then I got bored with the photo gallery too after they ran out of visual reminders of FAS's perpetual bewilderment.
This article was not without its moments of hilarity, however. Somehow the Post reporter managed to get a comment from Cooper Manning, the black sheep brother possessing self-proclaimed talent of such magnitude that he once bragged he'd "have four Super Bowl rings by now, maybe five" had he not chosen a career in trading energy stocks over professional football. Cooper, it turns out, is impressed by the fact that young Eli has turned into quite the sophisticated connoisseur of the spirits that made him the "special" person he is today:
"He can navigate a wine list pretty good, which is pretty funny," older brother Cooper said. "We'll be out to eat, and he'll order some Bordeaux I've never heard of, and I'll say, 'Oh, hey, hey, who's this? Look how hoity-toity.' "
Eli navigates a wine list pretty good, eh? Who would have thought that FAS is an armchair sommelier? I always pictured him as more of a Keystone Light tallboy kind of dude than a "hoity-toity" Bordeaux drinker. Maybe he took some "Wine Appreciation for Dummies" classes at The Learning Annex after being embarrassed at some fancy NYC restaurant when he tried to order a box of Franzia with his dinner.
Anyway, raise a glass of sophistimacated, high-falutin' vino for the happy couple when you get a chance.
Labels: fuck the Mannings, holy fucking matrimony, NFL football
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Robert Sylvester Kelly AGAIN
DOB: January 8, 1967
Occupation: the R. in R&B, the Pied Piper of R&B, the King of R&B, the World's Greatest, Mr. Showbiz, incorrigible flirt, a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall, inducer of women calling their men "Kelly" instead of "Tommy"
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Chi-town
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I think it should go without saying that R. Kelly qualifies for "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" status every day here at RAZZY.org. Let me remind you that he is the king of R&B. He even has the crown to prove it:
Kells is truly the world's greatest, and I don't give a damn what any of the haters have to say about it. R. Kelly is a fucking genius and he can piss on teenagers until his kidneys explode as far as I'm concerned; so long as the man continues to bless my ears with his mackadelic nightspot realness, he could be the antichrist and I'd still show him love. He's going to be acquitted anyway, and that's real talk. See, girl.
Today is a special day of Kells hitability, however, because today my Google news alert for "R. Kelly" advised me that, in spite of his criminal trial finally starting on May 9th, Kells has announced he will be releasing his new album THIS. FUCKING. SUMMER! ZOMFG! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!
What better way for Kells to celebrate his inevitable "not guilty on 14 counts of child pornography" verdict than selling a million copies of TP: Fourth Quarter??? I can't wait to hear how Kells is following up his ode to sexing up one's hairstylist "Hair Braider," the first single from what will undoubtedly be yet another masterpiece of climactic hotness in the seminal Twelve Play series. I pray that this album includes some version of the song he sang from the perspective of "the loneliest tongue looking for somebody to lick" at the greatest night of my and LL Cool Jew's life and that includes her wedding concert we attended when the Double Up tour came to the Nassau Veteran's Memorial Coliseum on Strong Island last November.
I'm glad that Kells hasn't spent the past few months between the conclusion of his tour and the beginning of his impending trial resting on his laurels. Clearly he's been buckling down in the Chocolate Factory making some jams and is urging his fans to "get ur braids tight" in preparation for their release. I've never really rocked the braided look but I may just have to go to one of the many salons in my neighborhood offering this service and get cornrowed in eager anticipation. I doubt I will have as much success doing my hair braider as Kells. "Hair Braider" is the latest in a growing collection of lyrics that lead me to believe coiffing and hot sexual activity go hand in hand for R. Kelly. If "Double Up" is any indication, Kells has threesomes while he's getting his style freshened up. Then again, a man who has proven his genius so ably that one of his great creations has its own Fan Wiki should be getting sexually serviced by the same hot bitches who are doing his braids. Believe me, man, this is how them players do it in the Chi. The moral of the story is cuff your bitch, especially if she fixes hair.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: whoever came up with the term "420"
DOB: the 60s?
Occupation: making potheads sound dumb
Hometown: per Wikipedia, San Rafael, California
Current residence: pervasive and ubiquitous
Douchebaggery: I have always been annoyed by the whole "420" thing. I like smoking pot as much as the next liberal arts college graduate, but I hate the way that lame-ass hippies have overrun pot culture. Hippies have no taste in anything, and they've managed to inexorably link the most infuriatingly bad music and slang terminology imaginable to an activity that I find enjoyable and relaxing (or would, if it weren't illegal).
Yesterday, LL Cool Jew and I were chatting on the phone, and she mentioned that she had to spend her Sunday going to some conference because her boss had to attend a damn Widespread Panic concert. "Widespread Panic gets three fucking hours on stage at this festival!" she fumed. "THREE HOURS! Al Green doesn't even get three hours!"
"It's because they need all that time to do their lame extended jam sessions," I said. "So that a bunch of unbathed losers can all flail around aimlessly until they pass out. This shit did not die with the break-up of Phish."
"Ugh," said LL Cool Jew. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard a single Phish song, but I already know that I don't like them. I heard that one Grateful Dead song with the skeletons dancing around in the video. Oh, and I heard that one about driving that train or whatever, but I don't think I've ever heard anything by Phish."
"Consider yourself fortunate," I said. "I have heard a Phish song, and it was like being tortured with B.O.-smelling hippie thumbscrews. All those bands sound the same: SUCK-ASS. I don't care if it's the Dead, Phish, Widespread Panic, or the String Cheese Incident, they are all total ass-sucking crap."
"The String Cheese Incident!" said LL Cool Jew indignantly. "I mean, really? What the fuck is that?"
"It probably was named after one of the unemployed dipshits in it was crashing on someone's couch and they got stoned and ate the last string cheese in the fridge. I can just imagine this going down: 'Man, nobody's name was on that string cheese and I had the munchies bad, dude.'"
"Oy vey," said LL Cool Jew. I could imagine her shaking her head in disapproval and turning up the Mariah Carey to drown out unpleasant thoughts of hippie jam bands.
To hear fans of bands like Phish, Widespread Panic, and the String Cheese Incident talk, these bands give Mozart a run for his money in terms of artistic musical genius. It's just another example of hippies coming up with the lamest excuses imaginable to do drugs. Who needs the excuse? It's a hell of a lot easier and considerably more tolerable to just skip the shitty jam session and get high.
420 is as lame as your average stank hippie jam band in terms of marijuana culture. In college, I used to get so irritated with this one girl who, if you were visiting in the late afternoon, would make you wait to start smoking until her clock hit 4:20 exactly because "dude, it's like really bad luck." What? Says who? Some nameless stoner who knows a friend of your friend? Fuck that. That's worthy of an exaggerated eye roll prior to sparking up at 4:17 and risking bad luck, because if I'm hanging around all these aggravatingly superstitious potheads my luck is poor already. I won't ride in cars with these 420-obsessed people because cruising around with a "420 24/7" or "Highway 420" bumper sticker on your car is like asking to get pulled over and arrested. Frankly, I think that advertising your possibly DUI status invites far more bad luck than getting high slightly before the clock strikes "4:20," especially since a popular rumor ascribes the origins of "420" to police radio code for a weed bust.
There's no need for 420 and I'm glad April 20th is now over. If you want to smoke pot, just smoke some pot and cut the annoying 420 bullshit. Don't e-mail me "Happy 420" wishes or leave animated gifs of big pot leaves as comments on my MySpace page. Quit making all of us stoners look stupid.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, drugs, retard rage
Friday, April 18, 2008
Breakin' the laws
NO, I'm not talking about laws regarding defamation and libel. I take those very seriously, no matter what some crazy assholes might say. I'm talking about laws regarding sex. These used to make the news a lot more when they were seen as a way to harass and pester gay people. So-called "sodomy" laws made it illegal to be gay in some states, and rightfully these were overturned by the 2003 Supreme Court decision Lawrence vs. Texas. However, did you know that there are still some really stupid fucking sex laws on the books in various places? The "sodomy" laws (pertaining to oral and/or anal sex) are no longer valid as of 2003, but as far as I know, the rest of them are still technically enforceable.
It turns out, I'm a criminal in several states and municipalities. This just goes to show that no matter how much I try to abide by the law, I still somehow manage to be a bad, bad girl. It's in my nature, I guess.
Here's my rap sheet:
1991: I showered nude in Florida.
1997: I engaged in "private sexual behavior" with a Marine (actually a Navy dude) in the bathroom of baggage claim 4 at Bradley International Airport in violation of Connecticut state law.
2002: I had sex in the female superior and doggystyle positions in Washington, DC, where the only legal position is missionary. Well, and I fell off the bed headfirst while we were doing it doggystyle, so you could make the argument that for about five to ten seconds, I was executing a textbook reverse piledriver as well. I'm pretty sure I also gave the lucky fella a blow job, but it's unclear as to whether this law would apply to that.
1998 and 2003: I slept naked in Minnesota.
1998: I reached climax before my partner in California during foreplay ("foreplay"=69). Several times. This law is not only obviously antiquated, but it was also clearly written by an insecure one minute man, because these days a guy who can make his girlfriend bust more than once before he finishes up is considered a keeper and a hot lay.
2003-present: I regularly break New York's state law forbidding me from wearing "body-hugging clothing." Luckily New York state law also allows women to go topless in public so I'm in the clear there when I try to get some vitamin D for my tits every summer on Long Beach or Fire Island.
Now all I have to do is have anal sex in Cincinnati, bang someone I'm not married to in Georgia, suck someone off in Indiana, engage in a public display of affection with someone in Idaho for longer than 18 minutes, fuck a porcupine in Florida, conduct business in Nevada while wearing a penis costume, fuck in a graveyard in North Carolina (good thing that law's not in Puyallup, Washington because I did that there in 1996), get laid in a meat freezer in Newcastle, Wyoming, and have sex in a parked car in Carlsbad, New Mexico without the curtains drawn. I'll be a criminal legend on par with Akon. Now I better keep an eye out for a warrant-wielding cop as well as a process server.
Labels: crime and punishment, hilarious shit, legal drama, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex
Daily Douchebag: Akon
Name: Aliuane Badara Thiam
DOB: April 30, 1973
Occupation: R&B singer, record producer, big old phony
Hometown: Dakar, Senegal
Current residence: Atlanta, Georgia
Douchebaggery: I never spent much time thinking about whether Akon's claims of being imprisoned for various crimes ranging from operating a car theft ring to illegal weapons possession to drug dealing were true. Akon has a nice voice and he sounds sweet when he sings "I wanna fuck you." I also figure that with a few exceptions, most of the dudes in R&B and hip-hop are embellishing a little when it comes to their criminal resumés. For example, when I hear R. Kelly singing the hook for Young Jeezy's "Go Getta," I don't believe for a second that Kells is"trapping all day." Robert Sylvester Kelly may be a R&B thug, but he's not taking a break from blessing the world with his mackadelic nightspot realness to sling crack on the street corner. And I believe Lil' Wayne a lot more when he says things like "hoes kiss the dick with no mistletoes" over "I put 'em in ya head and watch the holes bleed." In spite of his claims to the contrary, I don't think anyone actually believes that his tattooed teardrops represent three different lives that he's personally taken via homicidal means. The only crimes he's committed are the ones he's routinely arrested for: rolling around with pounds of weed (literally), smoking the same in public, and enough Vicodin to supply every prescription pill-popper on "Intervention" for life.
Akon, however, has apparently been doing a lot of talking about how critical his past record of illustrious criminal exploits have directly influenced his music. He even named his record label "Konvict" to demonstrate how critical his felonious history is to his art. A recent investigation by The Smoking Gun, however, raises some issues about Akon's personal credibility. As the author of the piece notes regarding his most recent album Konvicted, "Kontrived may have been a more accurate choice."
It seems Akon has made all sorts of claims in interviews, from being the "ringleader of a notorious car theft operation" specializing in exotic luxury vehicles to being a "champion" of prison fighting while doing a three-year sentence to "facing 75 years." With the exception of a solitary reporter at the Washington Post, the media largely accepted Akon's criminal autobiography as fact until The Smoking Gun did some fact-checking and declared Akon "James Frey with catchy hooks and an American Music Award."
In reality, Akon has only one felony conviction to his name (for gun possession), and apart from several months spent in the DeKalb jail for a stolen car charge he ended up getting three years probation for, he hasn't done any time. In fact, he conceived his son in the middle of his supposed term.
Akon has gone above and beyond to make himself seem like some kind of don of the urban underworld. Much like Vanilla Ice before him who made claims of being stabbed in the ass during a gang altercation, Akon presumably felt that this would enhance his marketability. He should have paid more attention to what happened to Vanilla Ice. The false claims of being grievously injured during a gang turf war were the nail in that idiot's coffin. Granted, Akon has produced far more in terms of hits than Vanilla Ice, but considering his outlandish fabrication of being a hardened criminal and maximum security prison veteran, I wonder how well his next album, Acquitted, will fare now that he's been outed as a total fake. Now nobody will ever be able to listen to lyrics like "you know my pedigree, street dealer used to move 'phetamines" without a sarcastic eye-roll. Then again, if nobody cares and Acquitted sells well, maybe I should think about marketing myself this way.
Here's my real autobiography:
I was born November 17, 1978 in Tacoma, Washington and raised in nearby Puyallup, in a house down the street from a trailer park and a mobile home dealership. I attended private Catholic school for twelve years. During this time my hobbies included writing, playing classical piano, and editing the school paper and literary magazine. I received a bachelor's degree in biological sciences from Smith College in 2000. I worked for a small biotechnology company in Seattle for three years and drove a '94 Honda Civic. I was then accepted into a Ph.D program at Columbia University, received two masters degrees, and expect to earn my doctorate in late 2008 or early 2009. I love dogs, beer, sex, and football. I have received only one criminal citation in my life (a misdemeanor "possession of drug paraphernalia" charge in South Dakota for having a pipe and half a joint in my car during a cross-country trek that amounted to no arrest and a fine of $250).
Here's my Akon autobiography:
I was born in 1985 in Tacoma and raised in a vile trailer park in Puyallup, where I began selling illegal firearms at a young age to my equally criminal neighbors. My aptitude in science led to a productive career in clandestine methamphetamine production, so I dropped out of school to pursue riches via the only option available: mastery of the drug trade. My shit was known as the purest tweak in all of Pierce County. After dominating the local market for meth and stunting around town in a stolen Mercedes MacLaren purchased at Akon's infamous chop shop, I set my sights higher. I expanded my portfolio of services to include illegal gun trafficking, money laundering, and interstate transportation of large quantities of marijuana. This backfired after an arrest in South Dakota landed me in maximum security federal prison for five years. While in prison, I was the head dyke in charge and quickly took control of the black market cigarette trade via my ability to beat everyone mercilessly. Upon my release, I migrated east to make a national name for myself amongst the heavy-hitting underground crime syndicates. In New York, I managed to use my prowess in the lab to sell black market illegal poliovirus and rhinovirus to terrorist and mercenary groups. I also began peddling illegal pornography, set up a bootlegging operation, and set up a combination pimping and dogfighting business catering to Michael Vick, Pac Man Jones, Tank Johnson, Ray Lewis, and some of the NFL's most notorious criminals. Today, I am considered a super-don and have several major crime families answering to me. I expect that soon I will be the world's most powerful criminal. And don't fuck with me, because I'm always walking around totally strapped.
Yeah, that's believable. I bet I'm about to get a lot more blog traffic now that I've decided to start marketing myself as a hardened felon with a lengthy rap sheet rather than an upwardly mobile science nerd with a Chopin fetish and a lot of letters bestowed by fancy schools that I can put after my name.
Labels: celebrities, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, overcompensation, rap, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Young Jeezy
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mariah Carey
Name: Mariah Carey
Place of birth: Huntington, Long Island, New York
Currently Lives: Per MTV “Cribs” circa 2004, a three-story NYC penthouse with four rooms’ worth of closets. Whut whut!
Occupation: Five-time Grammy Award winner best known for her vocal range, power, melismatic style, and use of the “whistle register”; Elvis-sales-records-destroyer; miniskirt rocker; shameless diva
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: Call me crass and pedestrian, but shut up, because I love Mariah, and secretly, so do you. If you’re “too kewl” to dig on the processed cheese that constitutes her jams, then you have to love the Mariah show.
This bitch is almost 40 years old and she still dresses like a mall rat hoochie. She is never caught without her ass practically hanging out of a spandex miniskirt, her tits busting out of some electric pink cropped snakeskin jacket, and her big ol’ tranny feet straining in six-inch stacked heels. Her signature fragrance, “M by Mariah Carey” (available at Macy’s, duh), is advertised as "floriental with notes of marshmallow." She’s generally a little on the “thick” side of things, but starves herself on chicken broth and the occasional piece of celery prior to album releases and videos and totally admits it to the press; then, on a recent trip to London, she had 11 bodyguards surrounding her restaurant table so nobody could watch her eat.
Despite the fact that Mariah is piling up a veritable greatest-hits album of diva demands (like requiring a $150,000 antique table on which to sign autographs for fans during a recent appearance and requiring a major European hotel to upon her arrival literally roll out a red carpet lined with hundreds of white votive candles), she manages to be pretty circumspect about herself. (I mean, she can’t be totally serious with all the butterflies and the album titles like “Rainbow,” “Daydream,” and “Glitter.” When is “Saccharine” coming out?). When asked about the title of her latest (and super awesome) album E=MC2, she said, “We all know that my album is called E=MC2 but I’m not exactly friggin’ Einstein.”
Later, she mused on the difficulties of finding a suitable mate when you’re a megarich recording artist: “You don't know who is here for the glamour,” she said. “Sometimes you feel like an ATM machine with a wig on it.” I’m not sure I’d be able to maintain that level of humility if I were one No. 1 single short of edging out the Beatles for the all-time record. In her own words: “Nah you ain't seeing things, / Or hallucinating, / I brings that levity, / Take me for a ride.” Levity indeed!
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Just say yes to abortion
I could really care less about the storied romance of Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson. Both are grade-A faux punk dipshits, and both have managed to corner the market on "ugh" (and other similar scoffing sounds) induction. Ashlee is an unremarkable moron and Pete Wentz jacks off to Morrissey posters. LOSERS! Unfortunately, since they got engaged (due to the fact that Ashlee is supposedly knocked up), I've been hearing far too much about them from my gossip internets.
Now Dlisted is reporting that Joe Simpson, Ashlee's creepy possibly incestuous father and media whore extraordinaire, is trying to shop Ashlee's baby pictures to the tabloids for a million clams. The tabloids are scoffing at this figure, rightfully acknowledging this as a possible publicity stunt intended to promote Ashlee's undoubtedly lame new album which drops next week. Here's Ashlee and Pete holding up a sign indicating the actual value (in Uzbek rubles) their baby pictures are worth to the media:
Besides, it's not like this kid is Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt and thus possibly the second coming of Helen of Troy. This kid is going to be an amalgam of fucking Fall Out Boy and Jessica Simpson's annoying little kid sis. I'd be shocked if this kid didn't pop out wearing a hoodie adorned with rhinestone skulls and too much eyeliner, and if I need to know what a runty emo poseur looks like, there are plenty of pictures of its parents, Joel and Benjy Madden, and Avril Lavigne circulating around the internets for free. I could give a shit less about some magazine putting Pete and Ashlee's douchebag spawn on its cover in a Ramones onesie culled from their Hot Topic baby registry.
If Ashlee and Pete really wanted to do something as antiestablishment as their personas attempt desperately to imply, I have a better idea. They'll get just as much (if not more) publicity for Ashlee's shitshow of a CD, and definitely stir up controversy. I think Ashlee should commemorate the Pope's visit to America by rounding up a camera crew and proceeding straight to her nearest Planned Parenthood. They'll stir the pro-life and pro-choice people alike into a frenzy, trigger plenty of media attention, and possibly even draw condemnation from the Vatican. The latter will get them into the international press. Ashlee's album will sell more than six copies. Furthermore, even pro-lifers will applaud their decision for not cursing the world with (possibly) the world's most contrived antichrist. Everybody wins!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, destroy all children, intentional buffoonery, media whores, ranting, retard rage
Daily Douchebag: Team Brenda and all the other Kelly Taylor haters
DOB: various
Occupation: hating on Kelly Taylor
Hometown: various
Current residence: various
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, news broke that Jennie Garth, who played Kelly Taylor on (the greatest show in the history of television EVER) "Beverly Hills, 90210," left the cast of a CBS sitcom. The internets are abuzz about the fact that this may mean that she'll be reprising the role of a lifetime on the upcoming Bev Niner spinoff.
I am fucking EXCITED about this. I loved Kelly Marlene Taylor. Apart from being the most unfortunate spoiled princess in all of Beverly Hills (over ten years, Kelly was raped twice, burned in a fire, lured into a cult, stalked by a crazy lesbian, addicted to diet pills and cocaine, sexually harassed at the Wyatt Clinic, forced to deal with her drunk cokehead mom, cheated on, forced out of a starring role in the California University production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and miscarried a pregnancy), Kelly was a super bitchy hardcore slut. In other words, she was my hero. While Kelly became somewhat of a goody two-shoes in seasons 9 and 10, prior to that she was a force to be reckoned with when she would flip the bitch switch.
Not all my fellow Niner aficionados agree with this. HillsYes is fully in the Team Kelly camp, but many of my other friends just can't forgive Kelly for banging Dylan in cabana 5 at the Beverly Hills Beach Club while Brenda was off looking for Balzac's house, picking up smoking, and faking a bad French accent to impress Dean Cain in Paris for the summer. I agree that was kind of shitty for Kelly to sleep with her supposed best friend's boyfriend, but I can't really blame her. While he was no Steve Sanders, Dylan was a hot piece if you can get beyond all the brooding and the generally annoying drama. Besides, Brenda was such a self-righteous pain in the ass as far as Dylan was concerned, I was overjoyed when he traded up for Kelly and got Brenda to shut up.
One of the few moments I have respect for Brenda is the one in the clip below, when she famously informs Dylan and Kelly, "Look, I hate you BOTH! NEVER TALK TO ME AGAIN!"
However, this is insufficient to convert me to Team Brenda. I'd take Kelly contemptuously rolling her eyes saying, "This place is never again" or "He's a dork...and a pukemeister!" any day over Brenda's high-strung freaking out. All the Team Brenda Kelly Haters need to reevaluate their priorities. Kelly Taylor is the hotness and I welcome her with open arms back to the greatest zip code on the face of the earth.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Douchebag, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Matt from Twelve Fluid Ounces
DOB: May 1, 1981
Occupation: U. S. Navy submariner, reactor operator
Hometown: Northport, New York
Current Residence: Portsmouth, New Hampshire (soon to be New London, Connecticut)
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: Before I get started on why Matt is hot, this reminds me that I want to give a shout-out to all the hot-ass Razzyphiles in the military. I know that I've made fun of military guys a lot, primarily because the vast majority of the ones I met in Tacoma bars were completely and total dipshit. However, just because I've never taken the opportunity to say how awesome the non-dipshit military folks are (particularly those who get Razzified on the regs). You guys are way braver than myself, considering most of you are going to get stuck in that shitshow clusterfuck known as Iraq, if you haven't already. I also think that the Bush administration has particularly treated you like shit, and the rest of the country isn't always as appreciative of your sacrifices and your services as they should be. I'm honored to have you guys as readers and Razzyphiles.
Anyhow, back to Matt. Matt is a particularly redeeming figure because from what I can tell, he has the exact same job as my friend MillerTime's ex. MillerTime's ex was a douchebag of the highest order. He had red hair, sported these giant hideous coke-bottle glasses because he presumably thought they were ugly-cool, seemed to think he was the funniest fucker on the face of the earth, and wore a beat-up fedora everywhere as if he were Indiana Jones. One time he came over to my parents' house to watch the Seahawks with us, and spent the entire time rooting for the Ravens (not because he liked the Ravens, but because he wanted to aggravate everyone). That day he even picked a fight with HotLawyer's friend ScandalousLawyer over who was the most "NorCal," which was absurd since he's from fucking Santa Cruz which isn't even really considered "NorCal." ScandalousLawyer got sufficiently pissed that he probably would have given him a fully deserved ass-beating if we weren't hanging out wth my parents. He also liked to front like he was some kind of literary expert, which particularly galled myself and HotLawyer. As HotLawyer once put it, "Just because we don't read Clive Cussler novels doesn't mean we don't read." This fucktard also treated MillerTime most shabbily, and while she'd frequently write it off with "he's only 22," I didn't buy that excuse. I expect he'll be just as much of an unpleasant, socially inept, abrasive asshole when he's fifty as he is now. I was overjoyed when MillerTime finally sent his bitch-ass back to Bangor Naval Base where he belonged, and felt that if all naval submariners were cut from his cloth, they were as a whole a group of dipshits capable of producing little in me besides total ire.
Luckily, Matt came along and disproved that theory. I don't know Matt personally, but he found me thanks to IvyGate's coverage of my batshit craziness. I discovered this when I noticed that I was getting some hits from his LiveJournal blog, Twelve Fluid Ounces. I went over there and read what he had to say about me, and while he argued that I wasn't crazy, noted that he'd "probably hit it," and compared me to Tucker Max, he fairly noted that I don't measure up remotely in terms of website traffic. He also gave my site a link in his sidebar. I left a comment acknowledging my shortcomings in the not-living-up-to-Tucker-Max department and thanked him for linking me. I then gave him a reciprocal link.
Well, Matt decided to rocket further up the chart by writing a huge, lengthy post about me entitled "If you're awesome and you know it..." He declared this post "PIMP THE RAZZYBLOG time!" Then he proceeded to link to about 50 different posts I've written, providing some interesting information about each. For example, he was once at the Gold Club in Groton (a lovely establishment that one of my friends from Smith used to strip at) and found his face approximately two centimeters away from Jenna Haze's crotch. I can't sit idly by and not acknowledge the awesomeness of a Razzyphile taking so much time to spread the word about Razzified useless bullshit with more fervor than St. Paul spreading the gospel message throughout the damn Roman Empire.
I've also learned a lot besides facts about my own awesomeness from reading Matt's blog otherwise. For example, he dropped out of Cornell and joined the Navy, something that judging from his scathing posts about life on the "Submersible Death Trap" and the fact that he has a tag called "navy hate," I suspect he regrets. In fact he seems to regard the Navy similarly to the way I regard graduate school, a generally miserable experience from which there is no escape. Matt is ballsier, though, because while I just run the risk of being unhappy and getting a lot of common colds in grad school, he runs the risk of getting torpedoed or whatever bad things can happen to a submarine (buggered by his fellow submariners). He's also really ballsy for admitting something that very few other dudes in their late twenties would on the internets: he's a virgin. I'd take his V-card, except for the fact that I've actually never had sex with a virgin before and that's a conquest I've never been interested in putting on my shelf of trophy fucks. No offense to Matt, but I've had enough trouble with slutty dudes not being able to hold their load for more than thirty seconds, and I'd prefer to not be really annoyed with him since he seems like a really cool guy. However, I bet if he ever comes to New York, I can take him under my wing and teach him a few things about picking up broads. I could also probably hook him up with a nice girl who would do it the right, respectful way (or get really drunk and think it's suddenly a good idea to handle myself). Besides, ladies, he apparently loves eating pussy. Lil' Kim and I both approve.
Anyway, go read his blog. He's a good writer. There is nary a "the navy sux lol" or "that razzie gurl is hott" to be found. He also has an interesting perspective on life in the Navy, and as someone who finds most personal blogs excepting my own to be dull wastes of time, for me to consider his work "interesting" is high praise. I'm honored to add him to my stable of Razzyphiles. Matt Carberry and Twelve Fluid Ounces rules.
Labels: an officer and a hot piece, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hot dudes, Razzyphiles
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Sprout-up suckage
I was chatting a while back with a friend about blogs that have no point other than to occupy bandwidth. Generally, I think that the internets and the diversity of opinion and perspective found there are a good thing. However, I occasionally come across a blog that is so insufferably pretentious and annoying that I can't believe the author thinks anyone would actually want to read it.
I realize that my writing isn't everyone's cup of scotch, but there are a lot of Razzyphiles who think my useless bullshit has at least one use: entertaining them. There are also a lot of Razzy Haters who, in spite of their apparent extreme distaste for yours truly, keep coming back regardless. For example, the one hater who is constantly predicting my doom in court had this to say about my possibly getting sued:
You're getting what you deserve. Maybe next time you'll check your ego and actually listen to sound advice. How easy all of this would have been to avoid. Now, even if you win, you've lost; look at all the time, all the anguish, and all the tears this has caused you.Checking my traffic stats informed me that this hater not only visits my site SEVERAL times a day, but actually stayed up all night checking my site to see if I'd moderated his/her dumb comment yet. This hater obviously is itching to see my "corpulent" size 4 ass get nailed to the wall by Rxxx (sha right) for alleged libel, and regularly invests his/her time reminding me of this. As far as I'm concerned, I've done my job in publishing material that elicits a reaction besides an eye roll or a declaration of boredom.
I also like to think that this is just a little bit of karma biting you in your corpulent ass for that hypocritical "fuck Tibet" post. People are being murdered for the right to freely critique oppressive regimes, and you cavalierly employ that freedom to publicly defame one of your limitless sexual partners. Feel good about that, do you?
Though it's true that I'm an incorrigible egomaniac, I don't think I have an inflated view of what my website is. I call it like I see it, and my website isn't anything beyond useless bullshit. I'd never publish anything snotty about the implied brilliance necessary to hack the inordinately complex and incomprehensible "artistic process" involved in writing as Razzy (mainly because it would be along the lines of "wake up, hit 'SNOOZE' at least ten times, consume Sugar-Free Red Bull, think of stuff to get pissed off and/or horny about, beat self in head for HTML incompetence, spend 2 hours sifting through Google images, curse in frustration at neighbors' patchy stolen wireless signal, freak out because I'm late for lab...and who wants to read that?). I hate people who give updates as to the arduous process involved in writing some of the most boring material ever, so that we might be impressed by their intellect and prosaic genius.
My friend sent along a website she'd dug out of the internets as an example of EXACTLY the type of blog I find infuriating. Meet Kristen Elde, AKA "Writersprout" AKA "Princess Kanomanom," a lame-ass loser with one of the worst blogs I've ever read.
Writersprout is the chick in the blue shirt, in case you needed help differentiating her from her other homely cookie cutter Brooklyn hipster friends. I guess "Writersprout" originated from her self-image as a master of the written word who has flowered like a damn dandelion-ass weed in the form of her snorefest of a blog. If you go to her website, you'll find a lot of tedious "essays" (because that sounds so much more pretentious and literary than "post") about her love of running, indie music that nobody's heard of except EVERYONE WHO LIVES IN FUCKING WILLIAMSBURG, and her prowess at baking vegan cupcakes. Oh, and there's also regular reports of all the books she's read, just to remind you of her staggering intellect (trust that this bitch cited The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the number one go-to book for advertising that you're a pretentious pseudo-intellectual on social networking profiles, on her Facebook).
Much to my chagrin, I realized that Writersprout and I have a shocking number of things in common. We're both Norwegians from the Dub-A in the P-N-Dub (she's from Everett, I'm from Puyallup), we both live in New York, we both have blogs (obviously), and we're both bisexual (well, I found instances of her cruising for chicks online on okcupid even though her Facebook says she's straight). I could have easily wound up like her had I stayed the course of being an obnoxious poetry-writing lesbian. Luckily for me, I turned sixteen and realized that life is too short to compensate for my insecurities by fronting like I'm some kind of intellectual giant. I might as well be true to myself and ask people to take it or leave it. Writersprout didn't, and now at thirty, she's still what I was when I tried to make myself forget how much I hated myself for being kind of gay, totally weird, and socially inept by portraying myself as the most interesting person in the entire fucking world rather than just a mousey wallflower toting around a copy of The Bell Jar and acting like I discovered Morrissey.
If you can get through the first "essay" (which was rejected by the literary powerhouse known as Runner's World magazine in spite of the heavy thesaurus usage that obviously went into its composition), I applaud you for having the patience of a damn saint. I scrolled through and was ready to smack a bitch. Since I don't do physical violence (at least not since I gave a bitch a bloody nose for beating me in the All Saints School fourth grade spelling bee), I instead decided to vent my aggression here on my trusty blog by writing an "essay" about what a dumb slag she is.
Unfortunately for the internets, she has decided to expand her blog empire and has started a new blog about her favorite hobby besides running and cupcakery: SUBLETTING. Yes, this chick actually SUBLETS for a hobby, so that she can live in various New York City neighborhoods, and has called for the thrilling tales that fellow subletting enthusiasts can tell (so any aspiring soporific writers out there, feel free to submit your uninspired work).
Writersprout, do us all a favor. Quit the running diaries and the cupcake commentary and the subletting stories and the reviews of Moldy Peaches concerts or whatever and start writing about your sex life. I've heard rumors that you're busy having threesomes and stuff, and that would be FAR more entertaining to hear about. As long as you insist on having an internet personality, you might as well have one that's actually interesting. People love hearing about threesomes. Trust this.
Also, make sure you give me a heads up before you return to the P-N-Dub for a visit. I saw you gave my hometown a shout-out for having a cupcake bakery:
I would like to make sure I avoid this place so I don't have to come face-to-fug face with you the next time I'm Doing the Puyallup (April 24th-30th...brace yourself, P-N-Dub). Then again, I tend to frequent Puyallup establishments like The Roadhouse, Muggs 'n' Juggs, Bumpy's, Nifty's Fifties, and Neener's rather than Indulge Cupcakes, so I'm probably in the clear. Writersprout sprout-up SUCKS.
Labels: assholes, ranting, Razzy Haters, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: dirty old Danes
RAZZY Note: I couldn't find a picture of this old john so I just substituted a picture of Jack Warden from the completely underrated film Dirty Work. In this scene he stumbles out on stage during a performance of Don Giovanni and gleefully appraises the busty soprano for the benefit of the audience: "Get a load of that mountain range!"
DOB: 1930 or before, presumably
Occupation: getting off with professional ladies
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Skanderborg, Denmark
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today I read an article about how some old geezer made an "indecent proposal" to a staff member at the nursing home he lives at in Denmark. While the staff doesn't apparently provide those types of services for their residents, they did the next best thing: they hired him an in-call hooker.
"There was a considerable change in his demeanor after the escort girl had paid him a visit. We do this for our clients just as we offer them other services that they need as human beings," explained Inger Marie Kristensen, the facility's director.
Prostitution is legal in Denmark (as it should be everywhere), so this was basically just an instance of hiring a professional consult for services beyond the capabilities of the nursing home staff, like bringing in a masseuse or a dermatologist or whatever other type of specialist. A woman identified only as Susanne, who leads the Danish Sex-worker Association, said that prostitutes "often" visit patients at old folks' homes.
I say hats off to these horny old dudes. If I was stuck in a nursing home, I'd understandably be depressed. Nursing homes are some of the most depressing places in the world next to the Holocaust Museum. When I was in high school, my piano teacher would always have us perform a Christmas recital at a local nursing home. Apart from the fact that I HATED playing Christmas songs to begin with (as my extended family would always demand a performance during my mother's annual Christmas party), I was always so distracted by all the sad, lonely old people that I would invariably screw up my rendition of arrangement of Schubert's "Ave Maria" or whatever the hell I was playing. If I were unfortunate to be living in one of these places, I'd rather have a hooker tickling my G-spot than listen to some uncomfortable high school kid tickle the ivories any day. These old people must be doubly miserable, for both living in a nursing home and being Danish instead of Norwegian. I say let them have some happiness in the form of a pro ho.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, perversion, sex, uff da
Daily Douchebag: Ben Stein
DOB: November 25, 1944
Occupation: lawyer, law professor, Nixon and Ford White House speechwriter, comedian, Darwin hater
Hometown: Washington, DC
Current residence: Malibu, California and Sandpoint, Idaho
Douchebaggery: I'd like to start by saying that I've always liked Ben Stein. He seems smart and I enjoy his dry sense of humor. Up until now, I've never had any issues with Ben Stein. However, I just saw an ad for his new documentary, EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed. Initially I thought this was going to be a film about Ben Stein making fun of academics being assholes. So I went to his blog. I was seriously annoyed at what I read:
I’m Ben Stein – many of you know me from the classic film, “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” or from my Comedy Central show “Win Ben Stein’s Money”. Still others of you may know me as a speechwriter, for presidents Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford. You may even have read my books, attended one of my lectures at The American University, Washington DC, or seen me on the talk shows.
I’m glad you found this site, because I want to share with you my thoughts from time to time here about a subject that is very near and dear to me: freedom. EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed is a controversial, soon-to-be-released documentary that chronicles my confrontation with the widespread suppression and entrenched discrimination that is spreading in our institutions, laboratories and most importantly, in our classrooms, and that is doing irreparable harm to some of the world’s top scientists, educators, and thinkers.
America is not America without freedom. In every turning point in our history, freedom has been the key goal we are seeking: the Mayflower coming here, the Revolution, the Civil War, World War II, the Cold War. Tens of millions came here from foreign oppression and made a life here. Why? For freedom. Human beings are supposed to live in a state of freedom. Freedom is not conferred by the state: as our founders said, and as Martin Luther King repeated, freedom is God-given.
A huge part of this freedom is freedom of inquiry.
Freedom of inquiry is basic to human advancement. There would be no modern medicine, no antibiotics, no brain surgery, no Internet, no air conditioning, no modern travel, no highways, no knowledge of the human body without freedom of inquiry.
This includes the ability to inquire whether a higher power, a being greater than man, is involved with how the universe operates. This has always been basic to science. ALWAYS.
Some of the greatest scientists of all time, including Galileo, Newton, Einstein, operated under the hypothesis that their work was to understand the principles and phenomena as designed by a creator.
Operating under that hypothesis, they discovered the most important laws of motion, gravity, thermodynamics, relativity, and even economics.
Now, I am sorry to say, freedom of inquiry in science is being suppressed.
Under a new anti-religious dogmatism, scientists and educators are not allowed to even think thoughts that involve an intelligent creator. Do you realize that some of the leading lights of “anti-intelligent design” would not allow a scientist who merely believed in the possibility of an intelligent designer/creator to work for him… EVEN IF HE NEVER MENTIONED the possibility of intelligent design in the universe?EVEN FOR HIS VERY THOUGHTS… HE WOULD BE BANNED.
In today’s world, at least in America, an Einstein or a Newton or a Galileo would probably not be allowed to receive grants to study or to publish his research.Since when has Ben Stein appointed himself the honorary Kansas Board of Education anti-evolution spokeswhore? Granted, I thought the whole "Bueller...? Bueller...?" was genius, but his portrayal of a public school teacher didn't make me think that he was qualified to tell them what to teach.
They cannot even mention the possibility that–as Newton or Galileo believed–these laws were created by God or a higher being. They could get fired, lose tenure, have their grants cut off. This can happen. It has happened. EXPELLED: No Intelligence Allowed comes to theaters near you in February 2008. To learn more, check out my blog here often … and explore the rest of our site for new developments, or to volunteer to help spread the word.
Sincerely,
Ben Stein
I agree with Ben that freedom is the essential American tenet, and that freedom of inquiry is one of the most basic aspects to human advancement. I also agree that this is essential to science. However, when he gets into complaining about the "anti-religious dogmatism" aspect of his argument, I start to roll my eyes. While Ben Stein is surely knowledgeable in matters of law, political speechwriting, and conservative economics, I absolutely disagree that any kind of religion has any place in the realm of science or science education.
I am a scientist. In spite of what people might think about my sex life or my ridiculousness or my attention whorishness or my writing, my actual job is experimental science. I know my shit and I am good at it. I have been working in a lab since I was sixteen. That's almost FOURTEEN YEARS at the fucking bench. I think that, in spite of my unfortunate tendency to generate negative data since I've gotten into the mouse business, I am very proficient at this task. I respect my PI, and I know that he would not have welcomed me into his lab or tolerated my many non-scientific scandals if he didn't think I was a competent and talented scientist who would be a credit to his legacy. My competency is inexorably linked to my ability to design and execute experiments effectively.
I am also a religious person. I am Catholic, and though I wasn't confirmed and I'm tremendously lousy at living up to church rules (particularly those regarding sexuality), I believe in God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit and the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth and all that dogmatic crap. I believe that God is the ultimate creator, and life would not be here without God.
That said, there is no way that God can be tested experimentally. Ben Stein might bitch that scientists might not be able to get grants addressing the role of the divine in creation, but has this fucker ever tried to get a RO1 grant? It's almost impossible to get a damn grant in this current economy and NIH budget even with the most direct, promising project. My PI is such an expert in his field that he wrote a damn textbook. He did his postdoc with a very famous Nobel laureate, he has the distinction of being the first in his field to achieve a major milestone when he cloned and sequenced a virus in the late seventies, and you ought to see his Wikipedia page. He is an endowed full professor at Columbia and nonetheless, he had trouble securing his last grant. Grants are hard to come by these days thanks to the Bush administration's emphasis (or lack thereof) on supporting scientific research. How on earth could a review committee (or "study section," in NIH parlance) justify a grant addressing the role of a higher power in creation? How do you design experiments to test something like that? If anyone has any ideas as to what controls you could include in such an experiment, I would love to hear them. Einstein, Newton, and Galileo may have been men of faith, but that doesn't mean they incorporated their religious beliefs into the methods they used to evaluate their theories experimentally. Just because Einstein, Newton, and Galileo believed in God doesn't mean they included that in all the ball-dropping or stargazing or number-crunching that characterized their greatest scientific achievements.
I went to Catholic school for twelve years. In high school, I was taught both the theory of evolution and scientific creationism (this was before "intelligent design" was employed to give the latter more intellectual credibility). We were taught that they aren't incompatible. Catholics don't interpret the Bible literally, so it's not like I'm bound by my faith to believe that the world was created in seven days exactly as the Old Testament says. I definitely do not think that the theory of evolution excludes the possibility of a divine creator. I can (and do) believe that evolution was God's means of creating life as we know it. However, I have no idea how I could go into lab and test this hypothesis. Science is a method for understanding the physical truth of our world. Science is not a substitute or a competitor for religious faith, and it's irresponsible to suggest that a religious element needs to be added to science education in public schools if only because it distracts from teaching kids about the scientific method as the divine falls outside the realm of testable hypotheses.
Ben Stein is smart when it comes to economics and political commentary and making fun of dumbasses. However, until he throws on a lab coat and executes a well-designed, properly-controlled experiment, he needs to quit bitching about "Big Science" conspiring like Big Tobacco to systematically eliminate God from the classroom. Science doesn't exclude the possibility of God, and operating under any kind of assumption about the influence of the divine isn't "intelligent" or faithful to the rational methods of inquiry that Galileo, Newton, and Einstein themselves employed. Stick to awarding titles like "America's Most Smartest Model," Ben.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dear God, movies, retard rage, science
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Dirty Steel
I love the New York Times coverage of "The Hills." First they called Heidi Montag a "feminist hero" on the basis of her being completely indecisive about her relationship with douchebag extraordinaire Spencer Pratt, and now they are reporting that male models everywhere better take notice because a truly exemplary specimen of fuckable masculinity is about to dominate catalogs and catwalks everywhere. Watch out, Derek Zoolander.
YES! Justin Bobby Brescia, my all-time favorite "Hills" dweller is expanding his talents beyond the realm of belching, motorcycle-riding, and flagrantly cheating on Audrina's dumb ass. Usually I hate guys with long hair, but I have a real soft spot for Justin Bobby. First of all, his name is Justin Bobby. Second, would-be players could take a page out of his book.
Last season on "The Hills," Justin Bobby managed to decisively out-douche Brody Jenner at his birthday party by drinking all his booze and being a total dickhead to everyone who crossed his path. Then he proceeded to make out with some other chick at a bar IN FRONT OF his girlfriend Audrina. When Audrina confronted him about it ("you were, like, totally, like, kissing that, like, other girl"), he simply responded, "No, I wasn't." When Audrina persisted in accusing him, saying something along the lines of "But, like, I totally, like saw you," Justin Bobby said, "No, I wasn't. You need to get your eyes checked." Then he belched. Audrina, being the rocket scientist of Epic Records receptionists that she is, says, "Okay," and gets on his motorcycle.
Last night while my girls and I were watching this trash (in riveted silence, because we need to fully concentrate on the dialogue in order to extract the point of any given discussion from amidst the "likes" and "totallys" liberally peppering even the most basic of verbal interactions between two cast members), the "scenes from the next" showed Justin Bobby and I about lost it.
"Dudes, JUSTIN BOBBY IS GETTING BACK TOGETHER WITH AUDRINA!!! YESSSSS!" I whooped.
HillsYes noted sarcastically, "Yeah, he'll probably have some girl s'ing his d in front of her and then be like, 'No, I wasn't.'"
"OMG, totz," said JerseyGirl.
"I'm so glad I'm solstice," said Twathopper.
"Why, because you only have to deal with dumb bitch drama and never get laid?" I asked scornfully. Twathopper's quest to "L some P" has not been fulfilled yet, but she is indeed truly a lesbian because she has five bitches blowing up her phone trying to talk to her about their feelings and their residual drama with their exes. Actually she earned her solstice stripes when she framed a copy of an article one of her would-be sapphic paramours wrote for Runner's World magazine. If that's not a lesbian move, then I didn't go to Smith College.
"Touché, mentor," said Twathopper somewhat meekly. Twathopper acknowledges that the reason she is getting processing rather than pussy is her unwillingness to heed my advice about dumping dumb bitches for not putting out, or at least threatening to. But I digress.
Back to Justin Bobby, the dreamiest piece of ass on meticulously scripted reality television. Justin Bobby may be the dirtiest, nastiest, most ill-mannered loser in all of Hollywood, but I'd totally hit that. In front of Audrina. And then I'd help him out by convincing Audrina that she didn't actually just see me giving JB a BJ. Bitch needs to get her eyes checked. Trust.
Last season on "The Hills," Justin Bobby managed to decisively out-douche Brody Jenner at his birthday party by drinking all his booze and being a total dickhead to everyone who crossed his path. Then he proceeded to make out with some other chick at a bar IN FRONT OF his girlfriend Audrina. When Audrina confronted him about it ("you were, like, totally, like, kissing that, like, other girl"), he simply responded, "No, I wasn't." When Audrina persisted in accusing him, saying something along the lines of "But, like, I totally, like saw you," Justin Bobby said, "No, I wasn't. You need to get your eyes checked." Then he belched. Audrina, being the rocket scientist of Epic Records receptionists that she is, says, "Okay," and gets on his motorcycle.
Last night while my girls and I were watching this trash (in riveted silence, because we need to fully concentrate on the dialogue in order to extract the point of any given discussion from amidst the "likes" and "totallys" liberally peppering even the most basic of verbal interactions between two cast members), the "scenes from the next" showed Justin Bobby and I about lost it.
"Dudes, JUSTIN BOBBY IS GETTING BACK TOGETHER WITH AUDRINA!!! YESSSSS!" I whooped.
HillsYes noted sarcastically, "Yeah, he'll probably have some girl s'ing his d in front of her and then be like, 'No, I wasn't.'"
"OMG, totz," said JerseyGirl.
"I'm so glad I'm solstice," said Twathopper.
"Why, because you only have to deal with dumb bitch drama and never get laid?" I asked scornfully. Twathopper's quest to "L some P" has not been fulfilled yet, but she is indeed truly a lesbian because she has five bitches blowing up her phone trying to talk to her about their feelings and their residual drama with their exes. Actually she earned her solstice stripes when she framed a copy of an article one of her would-be sapphic paramours wrote for Runner's World magazine. If that's not a lesbian move, then I didn't go to Smith College.
"Touché, mentor," said Twathopper somewhat meekly. Twathopper acknowledges that the reason she is getting processing rather than pussy is her unwillingness to heed my advice about dumping dumb bitches for not putting out, or at least threatening to. But I digress.
Back to Justin Bobby, the dreamiest piece of ass on meticulously scripted reality television. Justin Bobby may be the dirtiest, nastiest, most ill-mannered loser in all of Hollywood, but I'd totally hit that. In front of Audrina. And then I'd help him out by convincing Audrina that she didn't actually just see me giving JB a BJ. Bitch needs to get her eyes checked. Trust.
Labels: assholes, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, lezbollah, The Hills, TV, Twathopper
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Captain Sig Hansen
DOB: April 28, 1966
Occupation: captain of the mighty F/V Northwestern, miner of the Bering Sea for "Red Gold," HOT FUCKING PIECE
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington and Dutch Harbor, Alaska
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: It's no secret that I've got the hots for Captain Sig something serious. Let's just take a few minutes to relive the storied internet relationship between myself and the man who is going to singlehandedly cause the Bering Sea to rise due to his hotness melting the Arctic ice pack that is his bane during Opilio season.
-April 30, 2007: I write a post entitled "I'm a Sig Girl," detailing my tireless and unquenchable ardor for Sig, who I declare "the Adonis of Alaskan crab fisherman."Well, tonight is the premiere of "Deadliest Catch" season 4, and I think it's pretty easy to predict where I will be: firmly planted on my ass in front of the idiot box praying that Sig's scorching hotness doesn't melt the screen off. I figure that the first episodes will involve something along the lines of Sig's natural caloric output causing sweltering weather, triggering an unprecedented environmental crisis. Sig's hot temper only contributes to the hurricane-like conditions that will plague the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea. Luckily, it takes more than a little bad weather to set back a fourth-generation slice of hot Norwegian lutefisk like Sig (and he's used to it anyway, since climate change follows him everywhere he sails the Northwestern, not being able to dial down his own blistering hotness). Sig just shrugs it off with nary an "uff da," fires up a ciggie, and maintains setting strings like the true player-ass pimp he is. I'm pretty sure that's what they're getting at in this commercial:
-June 2, 2007: Sig links to the aforementioned post on his MySpace blog. I completely freak out and declare this "like rolling Christmas, my birthday, my wedding, the birth of my first child, and a Super Bowl where the Seahawks don't get flagrantly robbed by terrible officiating all into one uber-joyous occasion." Much like the geniuses at IvyGate, my awesomeness was misinterpreted as insanity by some of Sig's (far more stalkerish) MySpace fans. Sig, however, sees the truth and calls me "a hardcore Northwestern fan."
-June 4, 2007: In response to continued allegations from Sig's MySpace friends that I'm a frightening stalker, Sig DECLARES ME HIS .1 FAN! Then he exclaims "WOOT!" Can I get a "YA SURE YOU BETCHA?" (That's Norse for "What, what?!")
-June 6, 2007: I rate Sig as the hottest skipper--or any rank of seaman, for that matter--on the Bering Sea. I assert that Sig "sets an impossibly high bar for men to achieve" in terms of attractiveness and sex appeal.
-June 13, 2007: I lament the wrapping-up of "Deadliest Catch" season 3 by noting that "Sig hadn't shaved in a few days and he was thus continuing his unwitting crusade against Al Gore by ensuring that climate change continues to trend toward HOT HOT HOT." Then I throw in a classic commercial for Sea Galley just because it's fun. Man, I loved Sea Galley.
-June 17, 2007: The Deadliest fan site gives me a nod for being totally legit in the Sig Hansen adoration department.
-July 18, 2007: I note Sig Hansen's superiority in seafaring over the bastardly Danish, and bestow upon him the approval of my dead Norwegian ancestors. There's a place for you in Valhalla, Sig!
-December 10, 2007: Sig Hansen raises the 12th Man flag before a Seahawks game, thus ensuring both that the mighty Hawks lay waste to the accursed Arizona Cardinals, and that Sig was robbed in not receiving the key to the city of Seattle for his true hometown hero status.
S4 Promo
Damn, Sig, baby, I'll get my pants down if you want me to NOW. Oh, wait, did he say "pants" or "crab"? I'm pretty sure he said "Get Razzy's pants down NOW." That makes the most sense. According to me, anyway.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, seamen, uff da
Daily Douchebag: Hillmon Arnold
Name: Hillmon Arnold
DOB: 1986?
Occupation: bread dealer
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Duval County Jail, Jacksonville, Florida
Douchebaggery: While trying to make some extra money to support his crack habit, Hillmon Arnold came up with an ingenious plan. He realized that, living in Florida, he was surrounded by an untapped natural resource: easily hoodwinked old people on a fixed income in the market for a hookup. Unfortunately for the elderly residents of the Golden Retreat Center who might be interested in spending their Social Security checks on some crack, Hillmon was hardly a Trap Star on par with Young Jeezy.
Rather than sell these old folks crack made from actual cocaine, Hillmon decided to save the real drugs for himself and peddle balled-up pieces of bread. Presumably he was betting that none of the geriatric crack fiends at this nursing home wouldn't retaliate with lethal force upon realizing they were trying to spark up slices of Wonder Bread. I would assume that the average Floridian nursing home resident isn't rolling around strapped, but then again, I also assumed there wasn't much of a market for crack in this demographic.
Hillmon was caught skulking around the nursing home parking lot, and in an example of what NOT to do if you're trying to be a successful criminal, took off once he got an eyeful of the cops. Upon being captured, Hillmon promptly confessed not only to being a crackhead himself, but to his underhanded scheme to fund his own habit by selling his counterfeit product to the unsuspecting (and probably senile) old people. Not surprisingly, Hillmon is currently cooling his heels in the clink as he is unable to pay his $50,000 bail.
While I would applaud Hillmon from an entrepreneurial perspective for finding and dominating a niche market, I instead must chastize him for his completely unscrupulous business practices. Selling crack to people in a nursing home is bad enough, but selling fraudulent crack? Fucking rude. When I was living in San Francisco for the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college, my usual weed connection was dry so a friend and I headed to Haight-Ashbury to buy some from the hippies on the street. I hated this because buying drugs on the street sucks. Hippies annoy me in general for not only their music, their hygiene, and their styling choices, but also for their conduct during business transactions. They aren't very sneaky about it, and undoubtedly some of them were undercover cops. In the words of Gollum, "Risky, precious, too risky!"
Luckily I never got arrested, and I had managed to successfully procure weed in this manner previously. Usually you just had to loiter around and maybe stop into a head shop and soon some asshole with dreadlocks in a bong water-and-B.O.-smelling sweatshirt would come up and indiscreetly query if you were interested in purchasing some greens. On this particular occasion, however, my friend struck up a conversation with this extremely sketchy guy who appeared even more homeless than the average dirty hippie on Haight Street. The next thing I knew, my friend was strolling around the corner with this guy and with our money, and when she returned, she was very excited.
"Dude, this shit looks hella dank. The guy said it's this special Italian shit," she said excitedly.
"Let's check this out," I said, suspicious. I've heard pot called by all kinds of names and characterized as originating from any number of places: British Columbia, Panama, Thailand, Washington/Oregon (P-N-Dub represent!), Acapulco, Cambodia, India, Jamaica, Maui, Pakistan, etc., but I had never heard of any "special Italian shit."
We got into my car and I examined the purchase more closely. I smelled it and discovered to my extreme chagrin that it was indeed Italian, it just wasn't marijuana.
"Dude, this is fucking oregano!"
"No way!" said my friend. "But it looks just like herb!"
"Yeah, because it IS a fucking herb! This shit came right out of a Spice Islands jar! You just spent $60 on spaghetti ingredients!"
"Oh...fuck," said my friend. "Well, look on the bright side, at least we didn't get arrested." This bitch is no longer my friend. Back at Smith she went somewhat nuts, took advantage of my generosity with cigarettes, and stole a bunch of shit from me. I should have known she was bad news the moment she was so easily hoodwinked by a sketchy homeless dude. Actually, she's no longer a she, but that's another story. I just hope she makes a better man than a woman, because she was a dumb-ass bitch. And by the way, if you're reading this, Ethan neé Abby, you owe me a fleece jacket, a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers, and a Smiths The Queen is Dead CD!
Suffice to say, people who sell fake drugs suck for a variety of reasons. People who sell fake drugs to senile old people in nursing home parking lots are even worse than people who sell fake drugs to dumb 19-year-old summer interns attending expensive East Coast liberal arts women's colleges. There's a special place in hell for Hillmon Arnold.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, drugs
Monday, April 14, 2008
My type(s)
I'm single, so that means sometimes people try to set me up with other people. My friends all know that I'm quite content in my bachelorhood, but that doesn't stop them from finding people who are "my type" for me to go out with. I'm not complaining, because I'm lazy and I do appreciate my friends arranging circumstances that result in free cocktails and a high probability of getting laid. However, I'm not sure I know what "my type" means. I feel like I've fucked all sorts of different guys with different personalities from different economic, social, cultural, and racial backgrounds. The only thing I can think of is that I am attracted to people who are funny, not fat, and free of disease. Generally I like swarthy dudes with chest hair and blonde chicks with large chests, but there have been multiple exceptions to both rules.
I have some friends who absolutely have a "type." Their significant others all seem to be related. I know a few people who only seem to date nerds, Dani-from-"Shot at Love with Tila Tequila"-esque femmy butch lesbos, or Asian women. However, while all people may have preferences, most will deviate from those under the right circumstances. I can think of at least six guys who claim to resolutely prefer brunettes but have made an exception for the (obviously incredible) opportunity to bone my blonde ass. In spite of the fact that most people don't have a "type" set in stone, people always insist on setting me up with people who are "my type." To try and figure out what they meant, I took a walk down sexual memory lane to see if I could decipher patterns in the lucky more-than-a-few who have been blessed with my sexual congress.
I keep a list of all my sexual partners for practical reasons (in case I need to make an uncomfortable phone call and I need to remember the dude's name before making it...luckily that has not happened as of yet), and so I went through it to try and determine whether or not I have a type. I came to the conclusion that rather than a single type, I have several types, defined by my having slept with at least three people who meet that description. They are as follows:
Drunken louts: As an alcoholic slut myself, it's no surprise that I have racked up a startling number of partners who fit the same description. It's also no surprise that the guys who can be described solely with "drunken lout" (as otherwise they are rarely employed legitimately, have no assets, and have never been seen sober) are fellas I picked up cruising the Tacoma, Washington bar scene. Many a drunken lout has escorted me home from storied locales such as Magoo's, the West End, Hank's Tavern, Doyle's, the Dock Street, the Hob Nob, and assorted other charming watering holes in the great City of Destiny.
MIT alumni: I have no idea why, but my vagina has a natural affinity for penises attached to nerds who graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I've boned like 5 guys who went to MIT! In fact, in the past couple weeks, two different people offered to introduce me to guys they think I'd like...who WENT TO MIT! Your guess is as good as mine why the guys at MIT are so much hotter to me than the guys at RPI, Cal Tech, or some other uber-nerd breeding ground, but my track record says they are.
Semi-nerdy Jewish sports fanatics: My ex-boyfriend Benzo was the pioneer for this type, but I've racked up at least three more since him. I was IMing with DanRubin, a bespectacled editor at a major sports magazine who I have established a sort-of e-friendship with since sleeping with him once months ago, about this a while back. When I mentioned that I have a thing for nerdy Jewish sports dudes, he dryly remarked, "I wonder what attracted you to me."
Amherst College/UMass students: I hesitate to call these guys "my type," as my affinity for them was mainly due to the close proximity of these two schools to the Smith campus. In particular, the Amherst underground frat scene was particularly enamored with my twat for my first year and a half of college. However, when I started dating Benzo halfway through my sophomore year, my interest in these guys was largely retired. In fact, with the exception of one Amherst alum and one UMass alum in the past five years, this is a phase I grew out of once I turned nineteen.
Metrosexuals: Despite my ardor for Hemingway-esque manly men with chest hair and hunting trophies, I still seem to wind up with a lot of dudes who have more bathroom products than I do. My ex-boyfriend Benzo can also fit into this category (although in fairness he also loves football and has copious chest hair, and is still very manly). He was so particular about everything from his personal care products to his preferred clothing brands that the mere thought of shopping for him for birthdays, Valentine's Day, our respective Judeo-Christian winter holidays, etc. was enough to give me an anxiety attack. He wore more jewelry than I did. I remember one time we were going out to dinner and the hostess said to Benzo, "Hey, I know you...I see you all the time at the tanning salon out on Route 9!" Benzo muttered something about having a reservation for two in an attempt to distract me, but I didn't miss a opportunity to tease him that was as golden as his synthetic tan. "The tanning salon out on Route 9? You TAN?" I asked. "Only once in awhile," he grumbled. This was clearly not information he wanted me to find out, since as he correctly predicted, I would have a field day with it. I spent the rest of our romantic dinner offering to check him for melanoma and rub aloe on him next time he fake-and-bakes. Benzo eventually got annoyed and made me promise to never mention it again, and surprisingly I agreed. The things people do for love.
Blonde chicks: I've only had sex with one chick who wasn't a blonde. She's a redhead, but she has great tits. Oh, okay, there are a couple other chicks who are brunettes now, but they were blonde when I did them. I am convinced that my lesbian tendencies are rooted in an almost pathological narcissism, so I go for girls that look as much like me as possible. It's sick, I know.
Upwardly mobile black dudes with many post-graduate degrees: For whatever reason, almost every black guy I've ever slept with is either a doctor or in medical school. The only exception to this is one guy who dropped out of med school to get a MBA (he also went to MIT).
Guys with lots of chest hair: When I was a little kid, my dentist had more chest hair than anyone I've ever seen and he was obviously proud of it, as he rocked an unbuttoned collar to show it off. It was kind of gross, because it was like having your teeth cleaned by a swamp cypress. However, he was pretty hot and had a nice smile, and thanks to his diligent work, I've only had two minor cavities in my life. I don't know if that is how I developed my chest hair fetish, but to this day, whenever I see hair sprouting out of a decent-looking dude's shirt I'm instantly like, "Who is THAT and how do I get him in my pants?" Chest hair is just so virile and masculine. Its presence turns me on to the point where it's almost guaranteed that I'll enjoy sex with the guy sporting it, even if the dick is only mediocre. However, guys sufficiently hirsute to maintain a thick carpet of chest hair are not without peril. I've been so blinded by my lust for chest hair that I've accidentally wound up with some dudes that had neck, shoulder, and back hair as well, and my lust for male body hair doesn't extend to those areas. One time I effed this guy who had so much body hair that it was literally like fucking a Sasquatch. It was like a pornographic outtake from Harry and the Hendersons. He looked like one of those models of extinct proto-hominids in the dioramas at the American Museum of Natural History's Hall of Human Origins. Needless to say, not even his chest hair could qualify his Homo erectus ass for a repeat.
So for those friends of mine determined to set me up with hot single people, please note that apart from people who are generally hot, candidates who meet the above descriptions are most likely to score a session between the sheets with yours truly. Feel free to hook a bitch up.
Labels: hot chicks, hot dudes, Razzification, sex, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Digg.com
DOB: December 5, 2004
Occupation: unfairly excluding awesome websites like RAZZY.org from social bookmarking-based syndication
Hometown: the internets
Current residence: the dumb, stupid, and dumb internets
Douchebaggery: Yesterday I decided to try and be a motivated webmaster and promote my blog more ably by adding some bullshit to my website that would ostensibly improve traffic (beyond the hot-ass 1100 unique hits--!--I get per day). I heard that there are these sites that allow people to bookmark your site and post it for others to enjoy. Much like Saint Paul, I am an evangelizing zealot when it comes to blessing the non-believers with a powerful message, except in my case it's Razzification rather than a misogynistic and draconian interpretation of the good news in the gospels. Well, I'm an evANGIElizing zealot on the rare occasions when I feel unflustered by my apparent inability to copy-and-paste ready-made Javascript code into my blog template, such as last night when I got bored during the snorefest that was the "Rock of Love 2" finale.
One of these sites is Digg.com. If you add a "Digg This" button to your posts, people can click it and share your site with their friends on Digg.com. Not that I have any friends on Digg.com, but presumably other people do, and besides, if your post gets "dugg" enough times, it gets featured on their front page, thus attracting new Razzyphiles. A girl can never have enough hot pieces in her Facebook fan club, so I thought this sounded like a great idea. Too bad this wasn't meant to be.
After adding a "Digg This" button, I tested it and was shocked to see that other Digg users had already ratted me out as having "adult-only" content. While I would be the first to say that I don't want dumb kids reading my website because I categorically loathe children, and while I certainly acknowledge there's lots of cursing and titty pictures here, my banning from Digg is an absolute travesty. I understand that Digg has a "Terms of Service" policy that explicitly forbids spam, pornography, and profanity, and that's fine. However, I don't have any spam on my site OR pornography (I consider porn distinct from nudie pics in that the latter don't include sex acts, and there's nothing fitting that description on my site). My liberal use of fucking profanity is the only term I break.
I would accept this if Digg.com weren't totally prone to overlooking this in terms of other websites. For example, the website F*cking C*nts hasn't been banned by Digg, and trust that the asterisks are only used in the page title. The Bunny Blog, this chick's blog that I read sometimes which often includes explicit sex stories and f-bombs aplenty, is still kosher in Digg's book. Nor has Digg banned the website AdultFYI, a news site about the porn industry covered with graphic ads for other porn sites. When I say "graphic," I mean there are close-ups of anal penetration and free trailers for movies with titles like Lord of the Squirt, Grandpa Loves Cream Pie, and Britney Rears 4. This site has content sufficiently adult to warrant an age-verification entrance page and a statement of 2257 compliance. Even its URL implies it has adult content! But apparently it's cool with Digg's terms of service while RAZZY.org is not. The worst part is that there is no appeals process. Other than sending an e-mail which will most likely be ignored (as when I was previously banned by Google AdSense for similar "adult content"-related transgressions), I have no means to encourage Digg to reconsider its banning of the world's greatest website! "Democratic" social bookmarking, my ass. If all it takes is for one lame-ass Digg user to rat me out for having "adult content" to get my URL added to its list of undesirables, I'd say that Digg is more reminiscent of Orwellian totalitarianism than democracy. In a democratic society, I'd at least get a trial before being declared an unperson by Big Brother.
Digg sucks for allowing individual prudes to ruin a perfectly good party. You may notice that I have added a "Share This" button at the bottom of posts which allows a user to bookmark this hotness for a variety of social bookmarking and networking sites (Technorati, Facebook, Del.icio.us, StumbleUpon, Reddit, etc.), and Digg is on that. If you are so inclined, feel free to go over to Digg and tell them how hard they blow stank herpetic peen for unfairly fucking over your favorite website ever in the history of the world.
Labels: computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, internet domination, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Stagliano
Alias: Buttman
DOB: November 29, 1951
Occupation: pornographer, inventor of the "gonzo" genre, owner of Evil Angel and Evil Empire productions
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Porn Valley, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I actually have no interest in hitting John Stagliano, as he tested HIV positive in 1997. He's also older than my parents, and I'm not sure I want as much attention paid to my ass as his most famous fetish would dictate. However, I must salute him regardless. Last week, a federal grand jury indicted him on eight counts related to operating "an obscenity distribution business." He is facing over $3 million in fines and thirty years in prison. He's keeping his chin up, pleading not guilty, and hiring a dream team of First Amendment lawyers. I always get a little bit hot for people who give the finger to legal drama and fight for their right to free speech.
I read a lot of porn blogs. Not just blogs with free porn (okay, I read those too...well, maybe "read" isn't the right word, but you get the idea), but blogs about the porn industry. Mostly these blogs contain gossip about which porn stars are on drugs or difficult to work with or have STDs and/or are dumb, which porn stars hate each other, the stupid things porn stars do to prove that they hate each other (trash each other on their blogs, mostly), and which companies are going out of business. Sometimes, they have more serious stories about porn stars who have murdered people, committed suicide, or overdosed. And sometimes, they detail legal proceedings against adult businesses that have run afoul of obscenity laws. This week, they're all blowing up about the various issues John Stagliano's indictment raises. There's speculation that John Stagliano brought this upon himself by mocking the government during a dance montage he produced during this year's AVN awards, and pornographers should watch it. There's also some pessimistic bitching about how the porn community will be totally unsupportive of Stagliano, because pornographers are lazy and selfish. There are concerns that if the federal government can indict Stagliano, they can indict anyone. While Stagliano is known for making and distributing a lot of fetish-oriented movies, he's not making any faux kiddie-porn a la Max Hardcore. There are also some adult industry legal analysts theorizing that the government is trying to get the issue of obscenity and minor internet access to the Supreme Court while it's in its current ultra-conservative configuration.
I myself have to wonder exactly why, out of all the potentially obscene material on the internets, Stagliano was singled out. The specific videos considered "obscene" are Milk Nymphos, Storm Squirters 2: Target Practice, and a trailer for Belladonna's Fetish Fanatic 5. Apparently fluids squirting out of orifices are what renders these films obscene, and this mystifies me. While milk enemas may be gross and not something I get off watching or doing, I have seen these appear in movies not singled out as "obscene" by the feds. In fact, I believe that one of those movies is an earlier installment of the Belladonna's Fetish Fanatic series, and it features the titular Belladonna hugely pregnant and exchanging BREAST MILK enemas with her also pregnant costar. And breast milk enemas are the tip of the iceberg for Belladonna; she didn't win the FAME Award for "Dirtiest Girl in Porn" for nothing. All of Belladonna's movies are also distributed by Evil Angel; I guess the Department of Justice didn't watch the whole catalog when they were putting their case together.
The charge for the squirting movie is even more baffling. Female ejaculation is practically standard in most porn these days. If you search for "squirt" on RedTube or YouPorn, you'll pull up hundreds of different clips. In fact, Belladonna is a pro at this too, both in terms of doing it herself when confronted with a sexy foot and compelling her partners to do it. I think it's also sexist to say that female ejaculation is obscene when male ejaculation is the cornerstone of hardcore porn. When a man does it, it's a money shot, but when a woman does, it's "obscene." I don't understand why this is more offensive than this, unless it's because showing a woman having an apparently awesome, albeit extremely messy, orgasm like a man (sort of) offends the Department of Justice's misogynistic sensibilities.
John Stagliano is getting screwed harder than the asses of the porn stars in his Buttman movies. There is no reason why he should be prosecuted for supposed obscenity that practically every other pornographer in the entire world routinely produces. As a taxpayer, I'm pissed that while the economy is in the toilet and we're waging an unwinnable and horrendously expensive war, the Department of Justice is spending so much time and money trying to restrict free speech. If I weren't busy trying to get enough money together for my own free speech-related legal defense fund (more on that later), I'd donate to his. Free Buttman!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, free fucking speech, porn
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Braids by Sisqo
Robert Sylvester Kelly AKA R. Kelly AKA the R-uh/Pied Piper/King of R&B AKA the World's Greatest has released a new single called "Hair Braider,"(go listen to it) and it should go without saying that I'm totally enamored with it. Kells has managed to apply his musical alchemy to a relatively leaden topic (coiffure and personal grooming) and transmute it into pure 24 karat gold. To celebrate this achievement, Kells went ahead and applied the Midas touch to his thematically apropos braids:
I'm not really sure how much I can tolerate this matching lamé coat-and-chunky braids combo. If Kells is, as the lyrics to "Hair Braider" suggest, indeed "doing (his) hair braider," he must not be doing a very good job to deserve this style. He looks like some kind of space age Pollyanna meets Liberace. Clearly he's not tipping her enough for the braiding/stripping services. Then again, perhaps coming out of the "booty shop" with this style is the peril of multitasking dirty sex and hairdressing in the middle of the night while really, really stoned. The point is that with this hair, R. Kelly should be a good foot shorter and running around Miami singing about chicks with "dumps like a truck" and his desire to catch a stray glimpse of that thong-tha-thong-thong-thong.
His hair braider apparently is proficient at many styles, from twist-ups to extensions, and he has many styles when it comes to sex positions, but I doubt both of their resumes when I look at R. Kelly's golden tresses. I'm not feeling R. Kelly the dandy metallic bleached blonde. It's time to go back to the zigzag braids that look like spaghetti in your natural black color, Kells.
His hair braider apparently is proficient at many styles, from twist-ups to extensions, and he has many styles when it comes to sex positions, but I doubt both of their resumes when I look at R. Kelly's golden tresses. I'm not feeling R. Kelly the dandy metallic bleached blonde. It's time to go back to the zigzag braids that look like spaghetti in your natural black color, Kells.
Labels: bleach blonde, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Friday, April 11, 2008
Daily Douchebag: me AGAIN
DOB: November 17, 1978
Occupation: grad student/nerd/lush/skank/useless bullshitter
Hometown: Puyallup, Washington
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: This is really lame, but it's totally excuse-making time. I wish I could say that I'm not writing much today because I went out last night and had an orgy with the Swedish bikini team and the Seattle Seahawks secondary, but the truth is I was home eating grilled cheese sandwiches and getting pissed that there haven't been any new episodes of "Lost" on recently. Then I read some high-quality literature (sTori Telling by Tori Spelling), and went to bed early so that I could do about ten million things in lab today.
I planned on getting things started in lab and then quickly cranking out a Dude to Hit/Douchebag during incubation times. Unfortunately, the coffee hasn't worked its usual magic on me this morning, and I found myself occupied with a bunch of boring science-related bullshit during incubation times and unable to write anything coherent or useful.
Yesterday, my PI hung an excerpt from a recent issue of Nature featuring some PI in California who has eleven RO1 grants because he gets up every day at 3 am and works until midnight. At one time this guy was the most-cited cell biologist in the world (*ZOMG*) because of his workaholism. He also runs triathlons, so he can be even more insufferably overachieving. I have been trying to do that routine except writing useless bullshit instead of NIH grant applications, and I am probably one of the most prolifically blogging graduate students in the world, but alas, there's a reason I haven't been profiled in Nature as an overworked zealot. Sometimes no amount of self-motivation or caffeine is enough to get me going. Today, I just had to catch some extra Z's and then do some substantial lab work so that I can graduate. So, sorry for the limited Razzification today. These things just come up sometimes.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, excuses, Razzification
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Daily Douchebag: my so-called contributors
DOB (respectively): 1973, 1978, 1978, 1978, 1980, 1981, 1978, 1978, and1987
Occupation: something besides helping me out in the useless bullshit department
Hometown (respectively): Northampton, Assachusetts, Columbia, South Carolina, Federal Way, Washington, Yonkers, New York, West Longbranch, New Jersey, San Francisco, California, Federal Way, Washington, Alexandria, Louisiana, and Queens, New York
Current residence (respectively): New York, New York, Brooklyn, New York, Tacoma, Washington, Yonkers, New York, New York, New York, New Orleans, Louisiana, Seattle, Washington, Washington, DC, and Queens, New York
Douchebaggery: Okay, I'm not REALLY calling you guys douchebags. It's just that last night I went to JerseyGirl's boyfriend Kodiak's birthday party, and I am having a hard time getting my sorry ass out of bed to face the world today. You guys are awesome, and I know you're busy, but now would be a great time to help a bitch out. HotLawyer and Motherbucker have never even written the posts they were once so excited to have the opportunity to bless the internets with. This week JerseyGirl said she was writing something but I have yet to see a draft on the desk I don't have. And I know it's been slow in the R. Kelly legal news department, but surely Morrissey'sHair is annoyed by something going on in the wild world of bankruptcy law that he could write. Benzo hasn't left a single bitchy comment in spite of last week's orgy of McCain adulation and that makes me wonder if he's even been keeping up with his Razzification. And okay, fine, LL Cool Jew had a big event to throw and her anniversary to celebrate, but that ho can't tell me she wasn't watching "Top Chef" last night instead of typing up something I can use here. ILoveWhiteTrash was getting drunk in the virology conference room yesterday after a particularly well-stocked thesis defense party, so I know she could have whipped something up after the beer ran out. And FalloniusMonk is always traveling for work, but she can't tell me she doesn't tote her MacBook around everywhere just like I do. That hooker was taking lessons on Mac snobbery at the Apple store, so I know she can get a wireless connection from Jacksonville, Florida or whatever other hellhole she is in getting her experiential marketing on.
Like I said before, you guys are awesome, but you'd be even MORE awesome if you wrote random Daily Douchebag entries for me to throw on the blog on days when I'm finding it challenging to be anything BUT horizontal. HINT, HINT! Get cracking.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, excuses, Razzyphiles
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Stanley Kamel
DOB: January 1, 1943
DOD: April 8, 2008
Occupation: character actor best known for playing the villainous mob boss Tony Marchette on (the greatest show in the history of television) "Beverly Hills, 90210"
Hometown: South River, New Jersey
Current residence: a funeral home in Los Angeles
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was terribly saddened to hear of the death of one Stanley Kamel, an actor who has apparently been in about ten million shows, but is truly memorable for his role as Tony Marchette, father and accidental assassin of Antonia "Toni" Marchette McKay. In case you somehow haven't watched these classic episodes on FX or SoapNet reruns (and you can't get them on DVD...season six doesn't drop until spring 2009), I will provide a brief recap.
Dylan McKay, brooding and high-maintenance as always, comes off a bad year in which he becomes addicted to heroin thanks to a sketchy pool hall acquaintance who wonders if Dylan has ever "chased the dragon." Then, just when he gets out of a near-fatal stint in rapid opiate detox and subsequent rehab, his half-sister's evil mother Suzanne and her boyfriend Kevin steal his fortune and abscond to some tropical destination (I think it was supposed to be Brazil, but it looked more like Mazatlan). Dylan's sister would have been lost to an undoubtedly grim fate with Suzanne and Kevin if not for the aid of a hard-boiled private investigator named Jonesy and Valerie putting her powers of sneaky manipulation to work. Dylan gets his money and his half-sister back (so that she can enjoy a childhood in foster care and eventually become a different actress and a teen prostitute by season 8), and has just resumed flying the pride windsock from the front porch of his Craftsman-style bungalow when he has to help extract Kelly Taylor from the New Evolution cult. Then Kelly shows her gratitude by choosing herself over a trip around the world.
Just when things are looking up for Dylan and an investor seems interested in developing his shiteous sci-fi screenplay, he discovers the investor has ties to organized crime. Even worse, it appears that Don Tony Marchette of the organized crime family in question ordered a hit on Dylan's father Jack since Dylan's questions about this result in his being dangled from a gondola by the unscrupulous investor. And so season 6 begins with Dylan trying to conduct his own investigation into Jack McKay's death-by-exploding-car, and getting close to the don's daughter, the comely Antonia Marchette AKA Rebecca Gayheart the Noxema fresh-faced girl. Dylan falls in love with her in spite of his best efforts to pursue his vengeance-fueled vendetta against her family. He then marries her against Tony Marchette's wishes, his outraged father-in-law orders his murder. Unfortunately, the assassin confuses the recent Mrs. McKay with Dylan, and accidentally empties a clip into her. This precipitates another classic scene of Dylan howling in grief ("NOOOOOOO!!!!! WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!?!?!"), the likes of which hadn't been seen since Jack McKay faked his death by car bomb. Dylan then goes to Europe to live with Brenda and resume his junkie reverie, and only returns to the world's greatest zip code when 8 Seconds fails to score at the box office and Luke Perry's career as a big-screen leading man goes down in flames.
Anyway, the whole Dylan-versus-Tony Marchette feud made for some intense times on Bev Niner, and while I suppose death is a karmic reward for killing Jack McKay (or at least thinking he did), it's still a pity that Stanley Kamel checked out before he got a chance to bring some Cosa Nostra-related shenanigans to the upcoming Bev Niner spinoff. RIP Stanley Kamel.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, people who died
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Sherlock Razzy, Ph.ake Doctor on Patrick Swayze
Most of the time, my fluency in science lingo doesn't really come in handy. If people ask me about my thesis project, and I start discussing anything beyond "I'm trying to give a mouse the common cold," non-science types immediately zone the fuck out. In fact, even science types likewise zone the fuck out because most of us are so sick of hearing about the problems everyone is having with their damn western blots or whatever. Science chatter can make me sound smart but still boring to the layperson, and tedious but still boring to the scientist, so most of the time I devote my small talk to things like R. Kelly, Seahawks, Yankee hatred, television, Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern, my dogs, the book sTori Telling by Tori Spelling, and blowjobs. Whenever I write about some science crap, the internets typically respond with either "get well soon," "I hope you're dying of AIDS-related Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, whore!," or deafening silence. I've long accepted that not many people find the ins and outs of viral pathogenesis that interesting, and even those who do don't want to read about it when they cruise over to my blog.
That's why I'm really excited that finally I may have found a reason to break out my skill set at scientific jibber-jabbery. These past five years that I've endured in graduate school getting my geek on are worth it if only to provide this investigative report. My two Masters degrees and almost-Ph.D will actually be good for something besides the copious production of negative data! I know that for the last month or so, one question has been foremost in everyone's mind. I don't care if you are Hillary or Obama (or totally awesome McCain), if you are rich or poor, if you are a highly-educated snot or woefully ignorant. Every American with the slightest shred of national identity and cultural awareness has been concerned about one thing and one thing only, and I can put my training to good use for once by playing medical detective and answering this burning question: WHAT IS UP WITH PATRICK SWAYZE'S PANCREATIC CANCER?!?!?!?!
Patrick Swayze is a national treasure, having singlehandedly perpetrated some of the greatest acts of patriotism ever. Namely, he kicked some invading commie ass via terrorist insurgency in Red Dawn and he proved that even sensitive types with NYU Philosophy Ph.D's can rip a bitch's throat out when aggravated by statements like "I used to fuck guys like you in prison!" in Road House. USA! U!S!A! U! S! A!
Perez Hilton stated that pancreatic cancer is incurable while reporting that Patrick Swayze has responded well to treatment. I think Perez Hilton's medical education has likely been based on pamphlets relating the dangers of meth addiction at free gay health clinics (pamphlets that, based on his hypocritical manhunt.net profile anyway, were largely ignored), so I am going to take this opportunity to discuss how a national hero like the Swayze is actually handling his cancer therapy.
According to the gossip internets, Patrick is seeing Dr. George Fisher at Stanford University Cancer Center. Patrick supposedly had a non-resectable tumor, a cancer that you can't just cut out and call it a day. That means that cancer cells from his initial pancreatic tumor packed up and went on the road via his lymphatics to set up little franchise tumors in his other vital organs. While his medical press team hasn't publicized the details of his patient records, I would imagine that their early references to his "limited amount of disease" means that there is minimal lymph node involvement. Since Swayze is supposedly receiving "experimental" treatment, he's most likely enrolled in one of the clinical trials Dr. Fisher is sponsoring at Stanford. I decided to check out the details of these trials to get some more insight into Patrick Swayze's battle against metastatic malignancy.
Currently, Dr. Fisher is running two adult clinical trials currently enrolling adult patients. The first is the Swayz-meister's most likely therapy if he truly has a lower stage version of cancer. This trial involves using conventional treatments (or "therapeutic modalities," to use some hilarious industry parlance) such as combination drug therapy and radiation treatment. They are using some new kind of means of delivering the radiation therapy (specifically, a new imaging technology which helps to better place radioactive seeds within the tumor to kill it), which is what is experimental about this protocol. This is for patients who have metastatic pancreatic cancer that has not spread far beyond the actual pancreas or its associated draining lymph nodes.
Dr. Fisher's second trial involves a high-dose regimen of currently available chemotherapy drugs and a second regimen of an experimental drug. This experimental drug blocks the action of tyrosine kinases, proteins that normally determine how cells decide whether or not they divide, recruit a blood supply by creating new tributaries of the circulatory system, or move around in the body. Cancer cells--especially pancreatic cancer cells--like to divide, like having blood vessels and go on physiological road trips, which is why this type of cancer is particularly nasty. In theory, the combination of conventional chemotherapy drugs (proven to kill some cancer cells) with a compound that tells cancer cells to stop acting cancerous should work. In reality, this doesn't work for a lot of patients, and that's why the enrollment criteria for this trial defines eligibility as having a life expectancy greater than or equal to twelve weeks. If this trial is recruiting patients who have a minimum of three months to live, then this is a last gasp at proving efficacy in the first place. I hope Patrick Swayze isn't involved in this trial, because it is designed for the desperate, almost-certainly-going-to-die patient to dare their final hope for survival.
I hope that my science-dropping has better informed the masses of Swayziacs regarding the ongoing treatment for his pancreatic cancer. No matter what the esteemed Perez Hilton might state, pancreatic cancer is not incurable, and although the cure rate is very low, his good response to what I hope is the therapy defined by the first trial I described is an indication that he will help beef up the grave five-year survival statistics concerning this disease. Swayze MUST survive! Patrick Swayze's death would be tantamount to R. Kelly's conviction in my book: it would send me into a deep and possibly insurmountable depression. Thanks to my medical detective work, I am now convinced that hope is not lost. Patrick Swayze will still be with us in case the Russians invade Colorado, or in case a redneck Missouri dive bar needs to be liberated from the corrupt stranglehold of a local small-town organized crime boss.
Labels: celebrities, nerd alert, Patrick Swayze, science, tragedy
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Camille Paglia
DOB: April 2, 1947
Occupation: per Wikipedia, a "post-feminist feminist," per Prospect magazine "one of the world's top 100 intellectuals," and per herself "a feminist bisexual egomaniac" (I can relate)
Hometown: Endicott, New York
Current residence: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I first noticed Camille Paglia when the rest of the mainstream did, when she was on "60 Minutes" in 1990 talking about her book Sexual Personae. In between pictures of Paglia wearing leather and surrounded by dog-collared men on leashes, the "60 Minutes" reporter was featuring clips of Gloria Steinem (Smith College '56) and Camille Paglia trashing each other over whether or not the Rolling Stones' classic "Under My Thumb" was sexist (Steinem said yes because she invented shrewish pain-in-the-ass feminism, Paglia said it was irrelevant because it's art and the Stones rule). Even at the age of twelve I was impressed and thought that Camille Paglia seemed like the kind of woman I might like to be someday.
Unfortunately, after a brief dalliance with annoyingly radical feminazism in high school, followed by an even more irritating dalliance with poetry-writing overemotional lesbianism, I forgot about Camille Paglia until my ex-boyfriend Benzo's mother told me that she had shared a dorm room with her back at SUNY Binghamton. In college I figured that anyone who had once dyed her hair in a sink with Benzo's mom and who later rightfully called Andrea Dworkin a fat, ugly, mean-spirited troll who could benefit from more pornography viewing (I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist) was perfectly okay in my book. In fact, as far as professional feminist thinkers go, Camille Paglia is one of the very few I have any respect for. She doesn't whine, she likes to fuck, and she respects art. She's also very intelligent and an effective, powerful writer. That's why these days, I occasionally swing by Salon.com to see what Camille Paglia has to say about the world in her monthly column.
Today she is answering reader mail, and one of her readers wanted to know why Hillary Clinton has surrounded herself with such a collection of pussified douchebags. Specifically, the reader called the dudes behind the Hillary shitshow campaign "passive-aggressive, sadistic, mean, little, petty beta-male pieces of work who would not naturally succeed in a common male-type hierarchy." Camille agrees that Hillary's campaign--which she has compared to the Spanish Armada getting owned by England--is an unmitigated disaster, and then proceeds to call the men that are a part of it "slick, geeky weasels or rancid, asexual cream puffs."
I really loved Camille's subsequent characterization of Hillary Clinton. She perfectly describes why I am not voting for her (apart from the fact that I'm a social program-hating, tax-cutting, small-government libertarian). After noting that she has "come to doubt whether Hillary has any core values or even a stable sense of identity," Camille puts Senator Clinton on blast:
With her outlandish fibbing and naive self-puffery, her erratic day-to-day changes of tone and message, her glassy, fixed smiles, and her leaden and embarrassingly unpresidential jokes about pop culture, she has started to seem like one of those manic, seductively vampiric patients in trashy old Hollywood hospital flicks like "The Snake Pit." How anyone could confuse Hillary's sourly cynical, male-bashing megalomania with authentic feminism is beyond me.
THANK YOU, Camille. Women can and should be allowed to distrust Hillary Clinton, and I'm tired of hearing Hillary's myriad flaws excused on the basis that she's a chick and it's high time we as a collective gender demographic shattered the glass ceiling in the White House. I frankly don't see how anyone could think that Hillary is putting forth any kind of coherent or admirable message after she voted for the Iraq War and then spent her entire campaign criticizing it. I now really can't see how anyone can think Hillary is a consistent or has a shred of integrity or credibility after blatantly lying about the sniper fire she supposedly dodged in Bosnia. Most of my friends on Team Hillary have lately ceased their exhortations that I vote for Hillary simply so that we can have a woman president. I think that's because Hillary's shameless, unreserved ambition for power has finally emerged from behind her initial veneer of "experience," and she has been exposed for what I've always figured her to be: an insufferably, ruthlessly narcissistic liar. Regardless of her gender, Hillary just SUCKS.
I wholeheartedly applaud Camille Paglia for describing exactly why Hillary would be absolutely ineffective as a president, and why she is despicable as a human being. As Camille later writes in response to a different reader question, "I'd love to have a woman president -- but slippery Hillary, stolidly pumping and pumping her narcissistic bellows like a steam engine, just isn't it." Camille Paglia is a smart lady. I'd hit that hot piece of cougar ass if she weren't shacked up with her life partner. Trust.
I wholeheartedly applaud Camille Paglia for describing exactly why Hillary would be absolutely ineffective as a president, and why she is despicable as a human being. As Camille later writes in response to a different reader question, "I'd love to have a woman president -- but slippery Hillary, stolidly pumping and pumping her narcissistic bellows like a steam engine, just isn't it." Camille Paglia is a smart lady. I'd hit that hot piece of cougar ass if she weren't shacked up with her life partner. Trust.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, feminazism, Hillary Clinton, hot chicks, politics, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Rumors that I've gone totally gayelle
DOB: 2008
Occupation: cockblocking me
Hometown: the internets
Current residence: my inbox
Douchebaggery: I just received an e-mail from a male Razzyphile who urged me to reconsider my new decision to be strictly not-dickly, a decision that was news to me. He also sent me a picture of his dick because he noticed that even though I'm supposedly now a lesbian, I acknowledged that I enjoy weiners and he wanted to remind me what I'd be missing. While I'm always happy to field pictures of Razzyphiles' genitalia, this compels me to address these rumors in the most clear manner possible.
I AM BISEXUAL. I AM *NOT* A LESBIAN.
I still like boys, and in fact, I prefer boys. As much as I think women are beautiful and sexy, and as much as I'm quite partial to a hot set of tits, there's just nothing like a good old-fashioned hard penis. Furthermore, I like the rest of the boy package too. I like chest hair and strong arms and hard pecs and the musky smell of balls. I like deep voices and bodies that are bigger than mine. I like sucking dick, and when it comes right down to it, I'd rather have a dick in my vagina than anything else. I also tend to get along better with men in relationships (though rare, I have been involved in these). I don't like to spend a lot of time processing about my feelings. I like to work through problems directly so we can get back to fucking. In the one disastrous relationship I had with a woman, we spent 95% of our time dissecting every last nuanced emotion regarding our sapphic coupling, which left very little room for actually getting physical or having any kind of fun. I know that there are lesbian relationships existing outside that paradigm, but I have yet to be involved in one, unless you count my "special girlfriend." I don't, since my main ho is one of my good friends that I just happen to sometimes have dirty girl-girl sex with, and it's not like we go on dates unless that term includes us getting shitfaced at bars and picking up guys to tag-team. I don't think she counts it as a technical "relationship" in the classical sense of the word either.
I'm not offended by people calling me a lesbian, because I don't think there's anything wrong with being a lesbian. If you want to restrict your diet to the sushi bar, it's none of my business. I think people should just fuck who they want and it shouldn't be a big deal to anyone. It's just that I'm not a lesbian. I'm bisexual, and irritated by the fact that bisexuality is often discounted as either a pitstop on the way to tuna town or an attention-getting technique rather than a legitimate sexual orientation.
Although it took me a while to come out as bisexual (mainly because I was splitting rhetorical hairs over whether or not I can consider myself that since I just bang chicks and don't have committed relationships with them), I am comfortable with that label and believe that it is an accurate description for my tastes in the bedroom. However, in my case, I have to quash these rumors that I've fully committed to carpet munching, because I don't want the fellas to be discouraged from trying to hit this hotness. As the term "bisexual" implies, I like to get busy with both men and women. My bisexuality is not some transitional stage meant to ease me into giving up dick altogether, nor is it some insincere show that I put on in order to attract men. I genuinely like having sex with people of both genders, and I'm still mystified by the apparent fact that this isn't clear to people, especially since I've addressed this directly in the past.
So, for the record, just because I'm down to let hot chicks sit on my face doesn't mean I've instituted a "No Boys Allowed" policy with regard to my vagina. My legs are still open for business, and by "business," I mean "dick." Feel free to continue sending me pictures of your weiners, though. Penis pictures make me smile.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mario Chalmers and The Kansas Jayhawks
Name: Mario "Iceman" Chalmers
DOB: May 19, 1986
Occupation: Pimp, Miraclemaker, Champion
Hometown: Anchorage, Alaska
Current residence: Alamo Dome, San Antonio, Texas
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: We're National Champions, baby!
All day yesterday I had to deal with the bullshit ramblings of ancient commentators waxing poetic about how Memphis was going to play all over Kansas. Rose, Dorsey, and the fucktard with three names and the Magna Carta tattooed on his arm were supposedly gonna dance all over the Jayhawks. Memphis was so "deep" and "wide," there's no way the Jayhawks could win. Well, it turns out the only thing going "deep" and "wide" was Jayhawk cock in the Memphis Tigers' collective ass.
And you want to know what the best part was? The "deep and wide" mentally broke Memphis ballers did it to themselves. Let's be honest, that's what happens when you pin all your championship hopes and dreams on a freshman who spends more time buying Slurpees and Silly Straws at 7-11 than he does practicing his free-throws. You lose games when you pin championship wishes on a 25-year-old jackass who manages to get himself fouled out of the game in regulation, only to watch from the bench as the Jayhawks score four goals from inside in overtime. You lose games when you CHOKE Roy Williams-style by missing 4 out of your last 5 free-throws. Oh, and you lose games when you hire greaseball coaches like Calipari who couldn't coach himself out of a paperbag (where's the foul with 10.8 seconds left, bitch?)
But I digress, let's begin my written sexual molestation of Mario Chalm-I'llletyoufeelmeup-ers and my beloved Jayhawks. Last night's game was a tough one. With 2:12 left to go in the game, MY boys (not Roy's boys) were down by 9. My psychotic hand clapping was doing no good so I graduated to hyperventilation. The remaining 2 minutes and 10 seconds gave us a panting, exhausted Tiger bunch lagging down the court as the long-benched Jayhawks used energy reserves to whittle the Tiger lead to a 3 measly points. And then there was Mario.
Mario. A man by any other name would not sound as sweet. (There's a Derrick Rose joke to be made here, but I won't waste your time with it. The gummi bear jokes are funnier). With 0.2 seconds in the half, in the game, in MY LIFE, my man Mario did this:
Oh SHIT! It's overtime, baby! I can't hear the fat lady singing just yet.
In the final 5 minutes of the ballgame, Kansas continued its rally from 2 minutes out. We even had Benedict Williams in the stands cheering on Kansas with a Jayhawk affixed to his shirt. But the best part about the game was that the Jayhawks din't have just two scorers, two big men, two stars, two shit-talking "golden" boys; Kansas had a team. As Motherbucker eloquently put it this morning, the Jayhawks used a Musketeer strategy, "All for one and all that shit." And she's goddamn right.
Before last night, Memphis coach John Calipari repeatedly told us that freethrows are about "mental toughness" and that he knew his kids had it. I hate to break it to you, Mr. Calipari, but it turns out they didn't. If you'd like mental toughness, steely resolve or balls of motherfucking platinum, please feel free to turn to your left. Mario Chalmers and the Jayhawks will be waving.
In my last post, I offered you a fake quote by Gummibear Rose implying he might not be able to spell very well. I close my tribute to Mario Chalmers and the new national champions with this actual quote by Whiney McStomachache Rose explaining last night's loss:
"It wasn't the free throws, it was the plays before the free throws," said freshman Derrick Rose, who made one of two with 10.8 seconds left. "When we was on the line, we was trying to make 'em. That's what everybody go up there and try to do. But I guess we didn't do it." I couldn't have said it better myself.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, ElCyd, hot dudes, March Madness
We are not dumb enough
Last night, I was at my friend JerseyGirl's apartment for our usual Monday night cooking lesson and trashy TV watching. During "The Hills," JerseyGirl and I kept the other ladies entertained by trying to reenact scenes from that night's episodes.
"So, like, I saw, Heidi and Spencer's sister at Vice like last night," I said, trying as hard as I could to master Audrina Patridge's perpetually confused, mouth-breathing smile.
"Too smart! You can tell that you're THINKING and it doesn't hurt," said HillsYes.
"Okay, shit, I'll be LC in this scene, then," I said. Compared to Audrina and Whitney, Lauren Conrad looks like a rocket scientist. "You be Audrina, JerseyGirl."
"Like, she came over and like, talked to me, and went off on this whole, like, thing, and like, I was all, I don't know. It was like really...yeah," said JerseyGirl.
"Still too smart!" crowed HillsYes. "I'm serious, you guys are both too intelligent to pull it off. Even at your dumbest, you're both too obviously smart to even do a decent LC."
"Okay, okay, let's try it again. With even less conversation. I'll be Whitney, you be Audrina, let's just pretend we're talking about our jobs," I said. "Like, it was like, really hard to leave my three-year internship at Teen Vogue, but like, I love saying 'go go go!' to the runway models in this, like, fashion show," I ventured.
"Epic Records is like...like..." said JerseyGirl.
"JerseyGirl just did a good Audrina!" approved HillsYes. As her name implies, she's our resident "Hills" expert. We all watch "The Hills," but nobody thinks about it as much as HillsYes. "You almost had me convinced that you were that fucking clueless. But you're both still too smart."
After we watched "The Hills," all the other girls left, and instead of turning in early like good girls, JerseyGirl and I proceeded to finish drinking all the beer in her fridge. If only HillsYes had stuck around, because we ultimately became Whitney and Audrina in real life. JerseyGirl couldn't figure out how to connect her laptop to the internet, and wanted to know if I would upload the pictures from her digital camera to what she alternately refers to as "MyFace" and "Spacebook."
"You're probably better at figuring out computers than me, anyway, Razzy," she said. "I mean, you do science and you have a website and stuff." This warranted a simultaneous laugh-out-loud, audible scoff, and exclamation of "sha right" from me. I went into biology so I wouldn't have to do any math beyond y=mx+b and I am so completely inept at computers that it's a miracle I can publish a solitary word to the internets.
True to form, I was unable to figure out how to connect her camera to my computer. Well, I connected the cable, but my computer refused to acknowledge the camera's presence even after I installed the camera's software three times. I eventually gave up, blaming it on my having a Mac. I have no idea if that's the problem, but it sounds sufficiently insurmountable and I wanted an excuse to give up since we were both getting frustrated.
"OMG, dude, we really are like Whitney and Audrina right now. No wonder they never asked Whitney to do any photo layouts for Teen Vogue." JerseyGirl said.
"I know we aren't this stupid. HillsYes said we looked too smart!"
"Looked smart," said JerseyGirl.
Luckily, then JerseyGirl had a stroke of genius. She could burn some of her pictures to her one blank CD on her computer, then I could load the disc into my computer and upload it to the social networking internets. We high-fived each other on a job (slightly) more well done than Whitney and LC's attempts to pick up their shoes prior to the Crillon Ball in Paris during the season premiere.
"Obviously I have to name this album 'Whitney and Audrina,'" I said, as I uploaded the pictures to my Facebook page.
"Okay, now we have to do something really dumb, like start tagging stupid stuff," said JerseyGirl. We wound up tagging a vegetable platter, a chair, my tits, our friend Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy, a spatula, and a cake as JerseyGirl's boyfriend Kodiak and thought this was hysterically funny. Then JerseyGirl logged in to her Facebook account and proceeded to tag pictures of Chris Hansen and John Starks as me and we basically spent about an hour doing more of what JerseyGirl called "being renarded."
Sadly, even at our most inebriated and stupid, I have a feeling that, had a sober observer been present, we still would have seemed more intelligent than Whitney and Audrina. Even at our dumbest, we can't exceed the lofty standards those two broads have set for being vapid morons. Judge for yourself. Here's some pictures of Whitney and Audrina:
And here's myself and JerseyGirl. To level the playing field, I made sure to use a couple pictures in which we are both clearly WASTED OFF OUR ASSES. These pictures were from New Year's Eve, and while I don't remember what JerseyGirl was drinking, I was rolling on a brutal combination of scotch, sake, champagne, and tonsillitis that landed me in the Columbia-Presbyterian ER a day later.
Even when visibly drunk off our asses and not performing at capacity intellectually, we just can't get to that level of visibly stupid. I guess we'll never get our own tightly scripted reality shows. Lame.
Labels: computer incompetence, Dumb Smith bitches, Facebook, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, sluts, The Hills, TV
Charlton Heston is dead...
...but ElCyd is fortunately alive and well and Razzified as can be, and in case you didn't notice her awesome post yesterday, she's covering college hoops for RAZZY.org as of yesterday. Well, college hoops as they relate to Kansas. Somewhere J-Sexy is rolling her eyes and saying, "GREAT. More ridicolos sports. As if there's not enough of that stewpid football on your blog, Razzy." Halfhearted apologies to my platonic life partner and all the ladies (and dudes) who don't like reading about sports. I do, and it's my website, so ElCyd's coverage of the Jayhawks is something you'll have to live with for the next day. Count your blessings, sports haters and fans alike, because it could be worse. ElCyd is a lesbian; she could be covering the WNBA.
So now, thanks to ElCyd, you all can read lots of hating on Roy Williams and bragging about the NCAA Champs. Obviously I'm reserving Daily Dude I Want to Hit today for her to gush about Kansas, as she not only assured me that she would write something "no matter how hung over" she is, it's not like there's any other reason to gush about Kansas...ever. I mean, what's in Kansas besides tornadoes that double as portals to Oz other than their (now national champion) men's college basketball team? If that's not your bag, then just do what you normally do when I start bitching about Super Bowl XL: scroll down to the inevitable post about sucking dick or my tits. Maybe if we're all really lucky, ElCyd will regale us with some tales about her childhood down the block from the inimitable Reverend Fred "God Hates Fags" Phelps in beautiful Topeka once her March Madness-related excitement abates.
Welcome to the family, ElCyd! Hey, leave her some comments to remind this premiere Razzyphile (she started the world's greatest Facebook group, which you should join before you're the last kid at your school to do so) what an honor it is to have passed my rigorous criteria for contributing to this website (which, on an irate aside, was passed up for a Pulitzer AGAIN this year...bastards)! Or hate on her so she can be more like her idol (me). I suggest "fat", "ugly", "skanky", "attention whore", or "batshit crazy." ElCyd loves the classics.
Labels: ElCyd, hot chicks, March Madness, Razzyphiles, sportsmen
Daily Douchebag: Free Tibet activists
DOB: 1951, upon incorporation of Tibet into the PRC
Occupation: annoying people, rioting, stunts
Hometown: wherevs
Current residence: the Golden Gate Bridge
Douchebaggery: That "Free Tibet" crap has always annoyed me. Sure, the commies running China are dicks about preserving Tibetan culture and that sucks, but I don't need the fucking Beastie Boys lecturing me sanctimoniously about it. Granted, my knowledge of Tibetan culture comes from that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where that hot piece Marian literally drinks some fat sherpa under the table and retains sufficient wit to banter flirtatiously with Smith College professor Dr. Henry "Indiana" Jones and fight off a horde of archaeologically-minded Nazis trying to steal her medallion doohickey that points out the location of the Ark of the Covenant. Oh shit, that was Nepal. Oops.
Anyway, I thought most of that Free Tibet stuff had gone out of vogue, much like analog television or MySpace or protesting about the women in Afghanistan. Now with the Beijing Olympics approaching, however, I'm once again reminded that there's this pain-in-the-ass occupied country called Tibet and hippies are pissed that the Dalai Lama can't creep everyone out with his child molester glasses there.
However, now the Free Tibet scene isn't about Rage Against the Machine concerts and self-righteous college students so much as it is about angry Tibetans and their supporters taking the Olympics-related world media attention as a cue to get extreme with their protests. That means dudes are getting their riot on in major cities from Lhasa to Paris, and doing ridiculous bullshit like scaling the Golden Gate Bridge ahead of the Olympic torch to hang homemade Free Tibet signs. Yeah, I'm sure the Chinese government is going to get right on giving Tibet its independence that thanks to a bunch of peace-disturbing unemployed losers attacking the Olympic torch with fire extinguishers and some assholes with climbing gear fucking with traffic. I know that these most recent protests have convinced me of two things: Free Tibet assholes have too much time on their hands and come up with stupid ideas for media whoring. They should fall off the Golden Gate Bridge and do us all a favor. Fuck Tibet.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, fuck Tibet, international intrigue, media whores, retard rage, tyrannical rulers
Monday, April 07, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: The Kansas Jayhawks
Name: The Kansas Jayhawks
DOB: February 4, 1899
Occupation: Kicking ass, stuffing baskets, owning the Muthafuckin' Tar Heels
Hometown: Allen Fieldhouse, Lawrence, Kansas
Current residence: Alamo Dome, San Antonio, TX
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: It's the National Championship, baby!
Make no bones about it: I am a Kansas fan, a Jayhawk, a Jayhawker, a chanter of "Rock Chalk," a yeller of "Beak 'Em," a member of the "Big Blue" and someone old enough to know that while it may not be over til the fat lady sings, she belted out quite a note on Saturday night. Not only did Kansas fans get to watch our Jayhawks mercilessly slaughter the storied and bitterly rivaled North Carolina Tar Heels, but we did it with the hotness.
Furthermore, despite the fact that it has been almost 6 years since UNC coach Roy Williams abruptly deserted the Jayhawks, it sure felt good to deliver him a big fat assfuck Saturday night.
Because I am a loud, bitchy, borderline psychotic fan, I chose to watch this game in the comfort of my life partner, MotherBucker's super-swanky Philadelphia long-term-stay Hilton. So swanky that prior to game time when I realized that there was no decent beer (aka Heineken) in my light-beer swigging girlfriend's fridge, I made her roll over to the real hotel next door to get me some. I don't miss the tip off. In the first 15 minutes of the ballgame, my hands were bright red from the "psychotic clapping" I use to cheer on my boys. And even though I was unable to hear the announcers because of my streaming obnoxious one-sided accolade-laden conversation with the television, I'm sure their banter went something like this:
"Holy fuck. Kansas is beating the living shit out of North Carolina."
"Can you believe Kansas is so awesomely awesome?"
"No, Bob, I can't. Kansas is indeed awesomely awesome!"
"Dan! Check out the scoreboard right now. KANSAS IS LEADING 40 TO 12 WITH 6:44 REMAINING IN THE FIRST HALF"
"Bob, Roy Williams sure is taking it from behind -- and I mean WAY behind -- right now."
"Boy, Dan, I feel like a real douchetard right now for picking North Carolina to win this thing. My bracket is getting Jay-fucked."
(The dumb fuck you see above is Tyler Hansborough, the most overrated piece of shit player in the history of the NCAA tournament. He is also more of a FAS mouth-breather than any Manning could dream to be. He'll go on to play ball in the NBA in order to have the kind of embarrassing career Christian Laettner had after leaving Duke. Good luck dude, and eat a dick.)
The kick-ass dominance of the Kansas team embarrassed North Carolina into committing turnover after turnover after turnover. Kansas denied the Tar Heels again and again, cornering them into shooting just 4 for 20 at one point. Payback is a bitch, Roy. Go fuck yourself.
Now, in the Tar Heels defense, they did manage to unwedge their panties from their asscheeks for about 3 minutes to come within 4 points of a TIE (not lead, mind you. the jayhawks never trailed). But the mini-comeback was in vain. And when the votes were counted, the Tar Heels managed to do what head coach Roy Williams does best: Choke.
Chris Douglas-Roberts: Junior. Gayelle. Talks about his fagtastic relationships with the other Tigers: "Every game we expect to play really well. We talk to each other, you know, before the game." Um, Smith College called. They'd like their copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" back.
So bring it. We'll get you Memphis, and your little Rose, too.
The kick-ass dominance of the Kansas team embarrassed North Carolina into committing turnover after turnover after turnover. Kansas denied the Tar Heels again and again, cornering them into shooting just 4 for 20 at one point. Payback is a bitch, Roy. Go fuck yourself.
Now, in the Tar Heels defense, they did manage to unwedge their panties from their asscheeks for about 3 minutes to come within 4 points of a TIE (not lead, mind you. the jayhawks never trailed). But the mini-comeback was in vain. And when the votes were counted, the Tar Heels managed to do what head coach Roy Williams does best: Choke.
The Jayhawks haven't been to the final four since my junior year at KU and it has been 20 years since Danny Manning and the Miracles clenched a championship by rolling past Oklahoma's fast-break ball. It's time for KU to teach the laughable Conference USA a lesson with the kind of smackdown only a Big 12 team can deliver. So while my lameass girlfriend sends around tear-jerking stories about KU center, Sasha Kaun's, perilous escape from Russia after his father was murdered, I'm rallying for tonight's big match-up.
Just so you know Memphis' two players:
Chris Douglas-Roberts: Junior. Gayelle. Talks about his fagtastic relationships with the other Tigers: "Every game we expect to play really well. We talk to each other, you know, before the game." Um, Smith College called. They'd like their copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" back.
So bring it. We'll get you Memphis, and your little Rose, too.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, ElCyd, March Madness
Memoirs of a Hired Twink
Apparently in Japan, the new hot thing for successful women to spend their money on is a "geisha guy," an effeminate companion who will drink champagne with them and say stuff like, "Oooh, girl, those shoes are FIERCE."
Per the article in CNN:
I wouldn't expect anything besides the word "effete" to describe a fella who says the main perk of his high-paying job is indulging in a daily root touch-up and blow-out. Can't businesswomen in Japan afford better than this androgynous metrosexual she-male in terms of company for the evening? Note to self: Japan is definitely a BYO-gigolo situation for girls like me who like their weiners cut from more masculine cloth.
Per the article in CNN:
TOKYO, Japan (CNN) -- At first glance, the man and woman at the nightclub look like any other couple on a date. He flirts and pours champagne. She looks at him and laughs.So, in other words, instead of paying for some hot dude to dick them properly, these ladies are forking over up to 50 grand a night for the privilege of being a fag hag? I mean, seriously. I'd rather pay for a trip or buy something--namely a more masculine male escort--than waste those yen on an evening with a metrosexual girly-boy like Yunosuke:
This isn't a date, though. It's business.
The woman, a successful executive, has joined a growing number of professional women in Japan in forking out from $1,000 to $50,000 a night for male companionship.
They meet their "hosts" in hundreds of clubs that have sprung up around Tokyo - the industry says only compliments are exchanged. The women pay for a man to lavish them with undivided attention.
"There's nothing wrong with a woman paying to be entertained by a man," one female client says. "It's just another step in equality."
It's a dizzying reversal of traditional gender roles in a country long known for geishas pampering male clients with conversation, singing and dancing. Now a new breed of entertainer has cropped up -- think of them as male geishas.
"I give women things that men normally don't do, like complimenting their appearance," says one host, 24-year-old Yunosuke, who only goes by his single host name. "I make women happy."
And they make him happy: Yunosuke says he earned more than $200,000 last year, enough to let him visit a salon once a day to have his hair dyed and blow-dried.
"Women see us as one of their accessories," he says. "They like to wear nice things, so I try to look prettier for them all the time."
What drives the business boom is an increase in the earning power of Japanese women, according to Air Group, a company that owns a chain of "host" clubs.
"Japanese women are now working hard and making more money," says Yuko Takeyama, a woman in her early 30s who manages Air Group. "They see this as a way to de-stress."
Women love being treated well without the pressures that come with dating, she says. Yunosuke's customer from the nightclub agrees.
"This is a gift for myself," she says. "It's the same as spending money on a trip or buying something."
Labels: gender bending, international intrigue, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Alfred Hrdlicka
DOB: February 27, 1928
Occupation: sacrilegious painter
Hometown: Vienna, Austria
Current residence: Vienna, Austria
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Alfred is a geriatric painter beloved by Austrians. I guess they love him as much as Mozart, tortes, waltzing, and sausage, which are the only Viennese experts I can think of offhand. Those and the cinnamon-flavored General Foods International Coffee, which I think is called Cafe Vienna, but I'm not sure that counts. Anyway, to celebrate the 80th birthday of their national artfaggoty hero, the Roman Catholic Cathedral Museum of Vienna threw an exhibition of Alfred's most famous works. What they didn't count on was the prudish freaking out that the Catholics would do concerning a painting called Leonardo's Abendmahl ("Leonardo's Last Supper") depicted JC and his boys in the midst of a big gay orgy.
The Austrian press has now apparently dubbed this painting (which was composed in 1984) to be the modern-day equivalent of the Danish cartoons mocking Muhammed. I guess they haven't been to an art show lately, because almost everything I ever see at these kind of parties is blasphemous work. I don't see what the big deal is painting Jesus irreverently, and I'm Catholic. It doesn't really bother me much to see Jesus depicted as a big homo or having a weiner or anything like that. When I was in college, that asshole Giuliani pitched a fit over some painting at a show in Brooklyn that depicted the Virgin Mary as surrounded by heaps of cow shit. I didn't get what was so awful about that, either. After all, bitch DID pop out our Lord and Savior in a fucking barn! If there's one thing I learned from years of Doing the Puyallup, it's that barns are often full of cow shit. The artist was probably just trying to be realistic. Even if not, making fun of Jesus and the whole Christ narrative has been a worldwide pasttime since 33 A.D. Get over it!
With respect to his literal artfaggotry, Hrdlicka just acknowledged that in Leonardo's original painting, there were no women depicted...hence an apostolic gay orgy ensued. I guess he didn't read The Da Vinci Code (which boosts Hrdlicka up several logs in the hotness department) concerning the identity of the red-headed twink next to Jesus in the original painting. Maybe Hrdlicka isn't familiar with the symbolism employed by members of the Illuminati or whatever.
In any event, I applaud Hrdlicka for coming up with a hotter take on the Last Supper than the usual somber affair that this is generally depicted as. I can say that the sacrament of holy communion would be a lot more interesting if it had been based on a more orgiastic account of Jesus breaking bread with his disciples. At least it would pique my interest a little more than it does now (currently my attitude when the priest says "Do this in memory of me" is one of relief, since consecration of the eucharist means that mass is almost over). Way to spice up Catholicism, Alfred Hrdlicka!
Labels: artfaggotry, Catholicism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dear God
Daily Douchebag: women-hating women
*RAZZY Note: these are just a few examples of bitches I can think of who hate hard on other chicks out of envy and insecurity, specifically perpetually whiny "Grey's Anatomy" actress Katherine Heigl, boyfriend-collecting skank Kristy Joe from "Rock of Love 2 with Bret Michaels," neo-conservative pundit and all-around major league hater Ann Coulter, and dumb, backstabbing skank from my lab Sohard.
Name: various
DOB: various
Occupation: jealous hater bitches
Hometown: various
Current residence: ubiquitous
Douchebaggery: Over the weekend, I went out to lunch with one of my friends, and we were dissecting my odd fetish for MIT guys (I can't explain it, and it's not on purpose, but a disproportionately large chunk of my sexual sample set is comprised of MIT alums). This reminded her that she'd once had a friend who went to MIT, but that friendship had now been damaged by the interference of a third party. It seems my friend brought her MIT guy to a party, and this well-known woman-hating woman walked up to him and asked if he was the latest person in my friend's "collection." When the MIT dude asked her to clarify, this bitch responded that my friend "collects people."
First off, this is not true. Second, it was readily apparent to anyone who knows the parties in question that this chick was the fucking bitch, not my friend. The first time I met this girl she looked me up and down and returned my "nice to meet you, I'm Razzy" by turning up her nose at me and snorting contemptuously. I was like, "Well, fuck you too." This girl was NOT attractive, her hair was a mess, and her body odor was so notoriously bad that you couldn't stand in close proximity to her for longer than thirty seconds without gasping for air. I heard that when she lost her virginity, she practically had to pay a guy to fuck her. I don't know if that's true, but as this girl's physical appearance matches and possibly exceeds the ugliness of her personality, I wouldn't be surprised. She is a woman-hating woman, and goes out of her way to treat other women badly.
I probably detest woman-hating women more than any other breed of despicable person. I realize that their misogyny, boyfriend-stealing, duplicity, social manipulation, and general affrontery is based on their own insecurities and petty jealousies. However, that doesn't mean I think it's remotely acceptable. Believe it or not, I sometimes feel insecure about my appearance or intelligence, but I don't work through that by trashing the reputations of all the chicks around me and trying to get in their boyfriends' pants. If I'm having a fat day, I eat a fucking salad and go for a run. If I'm having a bimbo day, I read something heavy. If I'm having an I-suck-in-lab day, I plaque some rhinovirus or set up an easy PCR, to remind myself that I don't actually suck. What I DON'T do is run around trying to drag other chicks down to make myself feel better.
There's this girl in my lab, Sohard, who is a classic example of a woman-hating woman. Her former PI dumped her (he literally moved his lab to Switzerland, said he was going to be in touch about her moving there, and just never called) so she joined our lab. Within a month of her joining, she had gone behind both my and J-Sexy's back to our male PI (boss/mentor) and lied about things we'd done to make us look bad. She accused J-Sexy of scientific misconduct and me of underhanded behind-the-scenes machinations in our department. She is not a team player, she hoards reagents, she blames other people for her experiments not working, and when you try to have any kind of confrontational discussion with her, she starts crying and tattles on you for being mean. Around men, she pulls this "I'm so helpless, and big bad Razzy is picking on me!" routine that is anything but truthful. For example, one time she refused to share shelves on a freezer that our PI had declared at lab meeting needed to be cleaned out and shared. When I said that if she wasn't going to clean it like she told our PI she would, then I was going to do it myself. She started sniffling and implied that I'm too inept to so much as pick up her tray of DNA constructs and move it to another freezer without fucking up. "I jutht don't want you touching my conthructth!" she wailed (she lisps because she has a tongue ring) at me hysterically, as I made the obviously frightening move of grabbing her precious tray of cloning vectors and moving it (without touching anything) to a shelf in a different freezer. I was so frustrated that I told her I had no respect for her as a scientist or as a human being, which in hindsight may have been a little harsh, but accurate nonetheless.
She went and cried to our PI, and then he had to give me a talking-to about scaring poor, defenseless Sohard with my demands that she comply with lab rules that were clearly established at the previous lab meeting. She also cried to half of our male colleagues to the point where one of them said that I should apologize to her for hurting her fragile little feelings. FUCK THAT! That bitch's feelings weren't hurt. That bitch was getting back at me for making her give up her personal freezer by taking advantage of the fact that I'm a loud-mouthed, bossy, take-no-bullshit kind of personality and she can cock her head, turn on the waterworks, and seem like she suffered greatly because of her feigned weakness and delicate femininity.
If I cry, it's because I'm genuinely upset, not because I want to manipulate a man at the expense of some other chick. I've cried a couple times in front of my PI and my labmates and those circumstances were horribly embarrassing to me. "Don't tell anybody!" I'll snivel. "You'll ruin my reputation as a ball-busting whore with a heart of stone." I always try to mitigate any accidental tears with a joke at my own expense. I certainly never sob on cue to garner pity from men as a smokescreen for my own fucking up. I have zero respect for women who pull these kind of antics.
I've never been the world's biggest complainer about gender inequities, but in the cases where men still have an advantage over women, we bitches aren't doing our cause any favors by cutting each other down. If women are going to be taken seriously, then maybe dumb slags like Sohard and my friend's relationship-ruiner should quit hating on other women for no good reason other than to seek male approval and validate themselves. I'd take a sexist asshole dude any day over a sneaky female misogynist.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, ranting, sluts
Friday, April 04, 2008
TGI90210F!
Since I'm in a bad mood because I don't feel like blessing my department with a twenty-five minute recap of all the hot research I've been doing in the laboratory this afternoon, I thought I'd cheer myself up by pre-funking with a little 90210. Although I have all the DVDs that are available so far, I only have time for a little clip, so I hit the YouTubes. Sadly, nobody has uploaded any footage of David Silver demonstrating his lyrical flow and subsequently dispelling racial tensions at the West Beverly-Shaw High School homecoming dance, nor is there any footage of Jackie Taylor getting high as a kite and ruining the mother-daughter fashion show. However, there is this priceless clip of Donna's brief stint as a model in Paris, a gig she gets since she fails so miserably at speaking French (because she's dyslexic) and because she eats a strawberry tart with the tantalizing seductiveness of a horse chowing down on an apple. As an added bonus, there is footage of Donna spitting one of my favorite lines of all time, when some pastry shop employee calls her "l'idiot." Donna responds with, "Je suis American, and if you don't like it, then TOO BAD!" I'm seriously going to go to France exclusively so that I can use that line.
And you definitely don't want to miss the hilarious montage of Donna modeling every last prop costume the Bev Niner producers could cull from the lost-and-found box at their local mall's Glamour Shots franchise. Fucking priceless. Happy weekend, everyone.
Daily Douchebag: My department seminar
DOB: today
Occupation: thorn in my side
Hometown: my lab notebook(s)
Current residence: the "Presentations" folder on my MacBook
Douchebaggery: Above I have attached one of the absolutely thrilling introductory slides from my department seminar talk. What is a department seminar talk, you ask? Well, it's thirty minutes of heaven for the nerds in the Columbia Department of Microbiology, at which I am a matriculating grad student. It's an annual tradition in which I regale my colleagues with tales of swashbuckling adventure regarding my thesis project, except by "swashbuckling adventure" I mean "misery, failed experiments, and negative data." Well, it's not THAT bad, but I'm so insanely bored with my own sorry attempts to give mice the common cold that I can't help but sound a little cranky about the whole affair.
Anyway, as I am sure you can tell from the above slide, this talk is going to be a rip-roaring good time even if the PowerPoint spell-checker doesn't like the prefix "Picorna-" and the word "icosahedral." Microsoft Office software doesn't seem to have much science jargon in its vocabulary. Undoubtedly the esteemed scientists who witness this display of Razzified awesomeness will overlook any consequent questionably spelled words and still find some pain-in-the-ass nitpicking to do about how I should spend another 15 years in grad school developing 100 more lines of transgenic mice and being miserable. God, I hate giving seminar. Hopefully this will be the last time I do so before my thesis defense.
On the bright side, however, I'm sure there will be a nice turnout. Believe it or not, I'm fairly well-liked by the other grad students in the department, so my pals will all show up to support me. Also, I'm well aware that there's a couple people from around the campus who read IvyGate, so I expect there will be a percentage of people in the audience curious as to whether my science abilities are as finely honed as my other notable skills (fingerbanging poultry, modeling skanky Halloween costumes, and staunch adherence to a quid pro quo policy regarding oral sex). It's going to be the highlight of my academic year. Trust.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, grad school bullshit, science, viruses rule
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: PRESIDENT John McCain YET AGAIN
DOB: blah blah blah
Occupation: comedian
Hometown: Coco Solo Naval Air Base, Panama Canal Zone (I never get tired of writing that)
Current residence: the YouTubes
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Simply put, this:
The video is like 12 minutes long, but you only need to watch the first ninety seconds (feel free to stream through the Joe Scarborough-acting-like-a-douchebag introduction). Specifically, you only need to watch the part where my boy Mac laughs about his take on the new season of "The Hills" ("that was pretty good, wadn't it?") and states that Heidi Montag is "a very talented actress." Stick around for bonus footage when he asks the guffawing formerly-of-the-eponymous-made-up-country Mr. Scarborough, "could I just mention Sylvester Stallone, Clint Eastwood, and Jon Voight...I've got them!" Wait...Jon Voight?!?!?!?! As in COACH BUD KILMER FROM VARSITY BLUES?!?!?!
If there was ever a solitary doubt that John McCain is my pick for commander-in-chief, this video just put that all to rest. He just ragged on Heidi, clapped in approval at his own joke, and then reminded everyone that the man who told James Van Der Beek "you're gonna be second string all your life, boy!" is sitting pretty aboard the Straight Talk Express. John McCain is absolutely the hotness. As Razzyphile L&L commented the other day regarding her intentions for congratulating him upon his ascent to the Oval Office, she'd "slither under that desk and give him the best Shania Twain he's ever had." I guess "Shania Twain" is Canadian for "head." I second that emotion!
The video is like 12 minutes long, but you only need to watch the first ninety seconds (feel free to stream through the Joe Scarborough-acting-like-a-douchebag introduction). Specifically, you only need to watch the part where my boy Mac laughs about his take on the new season of "The Hills" ("that was pretty good, wadn't it?") and states that Heidi Montag is "a very talented actress." Stick around for bonus footage when he asks the guffawing formerly-of-the-eponymous-made-up-country Mr. Scarborough, "could I just mention Sylvester Stallone, Clint Eastwood, and Jon Voight...I've got them!" Wait...Jon Voight?!?!?!?! As in COACH BUD KILMER FROM VARSITY BLUES?!?!?!
If there was ever a solitary doubt that John McCain is my pick for commander-in-chief, this video just put that all to rest. He just ragged on Heidi, clapped in approval at his own joke, and then reminded everyone that the man who told James Van Der Beek "you're gonna be second string all your life, boy!" is sitting pretty aboard the Straight Talk Express. John McCain is absolutely the hotness. As Razzyphile L&L commented the other day regarding her intentions for congratulating him upon his ascent to the Oval Office, she'd "slither under that desk and give him the best Shania Twain he's ever had." I guess "Shania Twain" is Canadian for "head." I second that emotion!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, politics, TV
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Everything--including comments--in moderation
Some of you may have noticed that I have turned on comment moderation. Before any of my beloved Razzy Haters have anxiety attacks about my intention to censor their negative opinions of me, let me explain why I've done this. There is one commenter in particular who constantly posts comments that are completely off-topic from what I've written (as I've never written anything detailing an inexplicable and asinine blanket hatred of Muslims and black people) intended to divert traffic to his shiteous website.
Longtime Razzy readers can probably figure out who this fucktard is. He's a marginally literate ex-con I've douchebagged in the past for being a racist idiot, which changed the tone of his e-mails and comments to me from "I like ur site LOL" to accusing me of being a "slut" and a "cunt." While normally I don't give a shit what people write in the comments, I'm really annoyed that his pathetic ass gets no traffic and he keeps coming to my site, writing the same tired racial slurs ad nauseum, and linking to his site...because reading incoherent rants about Tookie Williams and Keith Olbermann and looking at pictures of his pencil dick are obviously of greater interest to my readers than anything I might compose.
I've been deleting his comments as soon as I get a notification that he posts one, but then he left the following comment last night and I had just had it:
i think i'm going to start leaving links to my far superior site on your site, everyday, at 3am. think of all the people who will read it before you get up and kick your way through the garbage and delete it, LOL.
If you want to learn how to host your own site i'll be more than happy to show you how. for a nominal fee of course.
all you have to do is let me shit on your face. we go to brooklyn maybe once a month so if you're interested in a professional website written in php, mysql, and flash we'll set up a time and you can come and see us on Brighton beach and 10th and let me shit on your face.
What say?
Well, as tempting as that offer of going to the far side of my most hated of boroughs, Brooklyn, to have my face shit on sounds, I have a counter-proposal. What say I teach YOU how to have a website that actually gets some traffic besides you and your three buddies from the Aryan Brotherhood with computer privileges at fucking Elmira? I actually went to his dumb site to pull a screen capture so you could all see what a phenomenal web designer this fucktard is, and thanks to his mad skills with php, mysql, and flash, a stat-tracker popped up to advise me that I was visit number 6054. That means it's the 6054th time someone loaded his home page for the entire life of his site. By contrast, I've had 13,884 page loads from 9,519 unique visitors this week alone. And while my site does a respectable amount of traffic for a personal blog, that's still not very much compared to a lot of other websites with a greater reach and a higher Google PageRank. So it seems that, in spite of his site's supposed superiority, it's not even a contest when it comes to the number of people who want to read my site versus those who want to read his. I'd be happy to teach him how to author a site that people not from his white power prison gang actually want to read, for a nominal fee, of course.
And speaking of his prowess at webmastery, I think that the jury is still out on whether his skills are "far superior" to mine. I'll be the first to admit that I suck at computery stuff, but I'm sure I could learn if I cared. Sure, RAZZY.org's (woefully neglected) home page is what IvyGate charitably called "internet 1.0," but nobody is here to see what a fabulous design template I can create. My website is all about useless bullshit, a subject matter that hardly implies aptitude concerning the technical ins and outs of publishing for the internets. Somehow, however, I think that with a copy of Web Design for Dummies I could come up with something at least as good as the mind-blowingly sophisticated home page this asshole has developed for his waste of bandwidth:
Yeah, that's definitely WAY better than my site. I'd pay top dollar to learn how to make something as professional and sophisticated as this. Man, RAZZY.org looks like something designed by a shit-throwing Rhesus macaque in comparison.
My opinion on what is "far superior" is obviously biased and subjective, so if you wish to judge for yourself, why not compare the tits available on RAZZY.org versus the tits available on his site (his stank mail-order bride's feedbags)? If you had to choose, which set of sweater puppies would you rather motorboat?
From his site:
From my site:
Even the Haters who routinely call me fat and ugly probably would take me without even thinking twice.
And speaking of his prowess at webmastery, I think that the jury is still out on whether his skills are "far superior" to mine. I'll be the first to admit that I suck at computery stuff, but I'm sure I could learn if I cared. Sure, RAZZY.org's (woefully neglected) home page is what IvyGate charitably called "internet 1.0," but nobody is here to see what a fabulous design template I can create. My website is all about useless bullshit, a subject matter that hardly implies aptitude concerning the technical ins and outs of publishing for the internets. Somehow, however, I think that with a copy of Web Design for Dummies I could come up with something at least as good as the mind-blowingly sophisticated home page this asshole has developed for his waste of bandwidth:
My opinion on what is "far superior" is obviously biased and subjective, so if you wish to judge for yourself, why not compare the tits available on RAZZY.org versus the tits available on his site (his stank mail-order bride's feedbags)? If you had to choose, which set of sweater puppies would you rather motorboat?
From his site:
From my site:
Even the Haters who routinely call me fat and ugly probably would take me without even thinking twice.Anyway, as a result of all this annoyance, I went ahead and turned on comment moderation so this loser parasite won't interrupt the flow of people alternately praising me and suggesting that I'm a hideous, withered old hag with a flabby body, a totally busted face, and a pathetic need for attention from anonymous commenters. I figure that since I'm not turning moderation off until he goes away and I am not going to mention him ever again after this post, he'll eventually go find someone else's website to hassle with his inane attempts at self-promotion, if he doesn't wind up back in prison or forget to pay his electrical bill first. I may be too dumb to figure out how to ban IP addresses (and that's actually not the case, I'm just too lazy...a really condescending guy from tech support at my hosting company instructed me on how to do so a while back when the general of the Tej Offensive was trying to get me raped via Craigslist casual encounters ads for busting on Smith girls), but I can certainly easily go to Blogger and select the "enable comment moderation" option. Looks like I've got the last LOL.
So, that's why I have to approve all your comments for the time being. Never fear, I'll still be happy to publish any and all the fat/ugly/slut/lunatic/moron/attention whore comments (and obviously the "Razzy, you are a fucking GOD!"-type comments too). I generally welcome free speech and encourage everyone to share what's on their mind regardless of whether it's complimentary to me or not. So long as you aren't linking to this asshole's site, rest assured that you can wish AIDS on me to your heart's content. Besides, I'm told that moderation is a good thing with regard to sweet, sweet alcohol, so maybe the same is true with anonymous blog commentary.
Labels: computer incompetence, excuses, free fucking speech, internet domination, Razzy Haters
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Senator John McCain YET AGAIN
DOB: August 29, 1936
Occupation: Republican nominee for president, comedian
Hometown: Coco Solo Naval Air Base, Panama Canal Zone
Current residence: in front of his TV on Mondays at 10
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: It's official: John McCain (R-AZ) is now the world-record holder for all-time recognition "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" status, having held this esteemed title four times. He is also the only Hittable Dude to win this illustrious honor two days in a row, and the only one to have his nonagenarian mother hold this title as well. Yesterday, he took this home for being a hot fucking piece of heroic ass. Today, he's getting it for being straight-up hilarious.
Apparently yesterday, Heidi Montag, the equine-faced, fake-titted ex-BFF of Lauren Conrad from "The Hills" declared that McCain has her vote. Thank God, because I was only 99.9999999999% sure I was going to vote McCain, but now that Heidi's weighed in regarding her political allegiances, I can do my civic duty and vote for my candidate of choice entirely certain that he's the right choice for America.
When questioned about Heidi's endorsement, McCain quipped, "I'm honored to have Heidi's support, and I want to assure her that I never miss an episode of 'The Hills,' especially since the new season started."
Now, that is some straight talk from Senator McCain. I'm glad to know that my friends and I aren't the only ones who gather round the idiot box every Monday night to feel smarter by watching a bunch of stupid 20-year-old skanks fuck up their years-long internships. Indeed, true American heroes like my boy Mac are riveted by Audrina's ability to recite her scripted lines with all the chutzpah of a lobotomy patient, or Whitney's mastery of asking Lauren Conrad, "So...what's, like, going on?" I would just like to know if Senator McCain is on Team LC or Team Heidi and Spencer, and whether he is as excited for the return of Justin Bobby as I am.
Thank you, Senator, for giving my trash television some credibility. The next time someone tells me that watching "The Hills" is a waste of my time on the grounds that this show is "fake," the girls on it are "really stupid," and it generally "sucks," I'm going to be like, "Oh, yeah? Well, soon-to-be PRESIDENT JOHN FUCKING MCCAIN doesn't think so." Take that, "Hills" haters!
Labels: an officer and a hot piece, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, John McCain, politics, TV
Daily Douchebag: Pete McEntegart
DOB: 1970?
Occupation: blogorrheist
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: If there's one thing that really annoys me, it's an unbelievably boring, pointless blog. I realize that my useless bullshit isn't for everyone, and it's not like every single thing I've ever written is completely riveting, but at least I don't bore you all with the mundane details of my life. I will never devote an entry to banal shit like what I ate for breakfast, what music I'm currently listening to, or what book I read most recently. This is known in internets parlance as "blogorrhea," the act of blogging when you have nothing better to write but feel the need to write anyway. When I have nothing to write, I just post links to material I've written on more inspired days and/or pictures of my tits. While this might seem batshit crazy to some, I can feel comfortable knowing that I haven't written anything that the average reader would be angry about having wasted their time reading. I get a fair measure of fat/ugly/slutty/crazy/attention whore criticisms, but one comment I rarely get is that I'm a bad or boring writer, and I feel validated knowing that even if people hate me or my content, at least they read it closely enough to form an opinion about it and keep coming back for more.
That is why few things gall me more when I discover that a major website employs a blogorrheist as a "senior writer" and pays them to do little more than neglect their spell-checker and let their maximum 8 or 9 readers make bad jokes on their behalf. Meet Pete Entegart, a writer at Sports Illustrated who authors a blog called The 10 Spot, which he calls "a unique take on sports news" and which I call "a shameless rip-off of MTV's marketing lingo from their Tuesday night lineup six years ago" (ie: "Next week on The 10 Spot: Ashlee hits a rocky patch with Ryan Cabrera on an all-new Ashlee Simpson Show and things heat up between the housemates on The Real World: Paris.") Most of his material consists of "caption this" or "write your own joke"-type posts involving Isiah Thomas, and ham-handed one-liners he refers to as "Lunchtime Laughs." Most of his "Lunchtime Laughs" seem like material that the writers at "The Daily Show" rejected for being too painfully obvious. Behold some examples:
-Fourteen Congressmen are requesting that President Bush cancel a planned Olympics trip to protest the Chinese government's repressive nature. Fat chance; Bush finds the Olympics inspiring. Sure, it's a massive operation which, after years of preparation, ends in just two weeks.
-A grassroots effort is trying to put Wilt Chamberlain on a postage stamp. Makes sense. What would get licked more often than a Wilt stamp?
-Bill Belichick insisted Tuesday that he's never seen a tape of another team's practice. Really, what kind of chump do we take him for? It's all DVDs these days.
-Brian McNamee is selling signed memorabilia from former client Roger Clemens on eBay. The most coveted item is a piece of gauze with "Rocket" scrawled in dried blood.
Oh, that is indeed comedy GOLD, Pete McEntegart! Watch out, Bill Simmons, because with a knee-slappingly funny sportswriter dishing out hilarity like this, it's only a matter of time before Sports Illustrated and Pete McEntegart put you and ESPN Page 2 out of business once and for all. With talent and wit like Pete's, I can scarcely believe that he doesn't command a larger audience than the same five people who comment prolifically on every masterpiece he publishes. I mean, with the proliferation of stupid motherfuckers in the world, I would have thought that Pete would have a rabid legion of fans extending into the double digits.
After a quick check of the Facebooks, I discovered that McEntegart is single. Undoubtedly many a fierce skank in New York has a tale of her run-in with this balding, fire-crotched stud. I'm sure that his Ron Howard-esque good looks, as well as his success as Sports Illustrated's head blogger-in-charge, have resulted in many, many sexless dates with fat, FUPA-bearing, middle-aged desperate bitches. Sadly for Pete, not even the most hard-up slags on eHarmony want to hit a dude who tries to impress with short-sleeved button-downs culled from a bin at a Big Lots in New Jersey and a repertoire of not-funny one-liners delivered by his handful of marginally literate readers in the comment section of his blog. He seems like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time making sure that the few remaining hairs atop his crown are arranged just so and spends all day trying unsuccessfully to get his co-workers to shoot free throws at the Nerf hoop he has in his cube between regurgitating trite snippets of reader-generated content. The only remotely redeeming or attractive thing I can find about him is that his (obviously autobiographical) Wikipedia page implies that he hates the Yankees.
Not to say that if I wrote a blog for Sports Illustrated it would be much better, as if you restrict me to talking about sports, almost every post I'd write would be related to the Seattle Seahawks, bitterness about the officiating in Super Bowl XL, NFL referee Mike Carey, Ichiro, or competitive eating, but at least I'd come up with my own shit and I wouldn't have to try so damn hard to be funny. Hell, anyone with a first-grade command of English could probably write a more compelling sports humor blog than this involuntarily celibate loser.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, ranting, retard rage, sportsmen
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Buckle your survival suits
Only 5 episodes of the new season of “Deadliest Catch” have been posted so far on the Discovery website and already we can see that the King crab season is a very bumpy ride for the fishermen. Greenhorn issues, brushes with death, health deterioration, crab count problems, mechanical repairs at sea, and serious disagreements between skippers and crew are what we’ll be watching soon! And that’s just the beginning! Perhaps we should fasten our seatbelts…This indeed sounds like seatbelt-fastening-worthy excitement. But I need more specifics, like how often Captain Sig Hansen is going to show up and melt the screen off my television with his scalding hotness.
Episode 1
The crab fishing fleet once again sets off to brave the deadly Bering Sea and cash in on king crab. But first, Northwestern must quickly make much needed repairs. Wizard trains two greenhorns and Time Bandit welcomes Johnathan’s son Scott.
Uh oh, it sounds like Captain Sig is starting the season off on the wrong foot with some sort of mechanical fuckery on the mighty F/V Northwestern. However, I'm pleased to hear that there are more hotties from Clan Hillstrand joining the show.
Episode 2
The crews are off to stake their claims on coveted grounds, but the sea is not going to give up its bounty without a fight. The Time Bandit pulls a prank. After only 48 hours, one Wizard greenhorn is already starting to fall apart.
Those dumb greenhorns. They always cry like babies when their ship captain screams at them and bitch about everything. You're crabbing on the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea, not taking a pleasure cruise through the tropics, loser. Man up and fish.
Episode 3
A mechanical breakdown presses Northwestern’s Edgar to make a dangerous repair. Meanwhile questionable counting makes Sig lose his temper. Hard work separates the greenhorns on Wizard. On Cornelia Marie, Phil’s health is failing and impacts the crew.
My friend MillerTime is probably going to get all hot and bothered when her favorite Hansen brother gears up in a dry suit to fix the Northwestern's propellor or whatever. And you know I'm going to go into paroxysms of joy when Sig starts hollering at everyone aboard how fucking stupid he thinks they are. However, I will be very sad if Captain Phil has to hang up his captain's hat and cease wheezing good-natured banter with Captain Sig over their radios.
Episode 4
Greenhorns, skippers, and family fishing dynasties begin to crack. On Northwestern, Sig and Edgar have a “last man standing” contest to see who can fish the longest without sleep. Time Bandit’s Captn Johnathan has a brush with death.
Sig is going to win that one, obviously. Betting on Edgar over Sig is like taking pussified Paris over Hector in a bronze sword fight. Granted, I realize that since I once bet that the 2007 Miami Dolphins would beat the not-perfect Super Bowl-losing New England Patriots, I shouldn't criticize people betting on the underdog, but Sig is like the 2007 Patriots to the power of awesome. He can't lose. And Captain Johnathan has a brush with death every season. I can't wait to see if this brush with death is more compelling than last season when he pulled that deckhand out of the Bering Sea and was crying like a little girl while the guy hugged him, shouting, "You saved my fuckin' life, man!"
Episode 5
Tempers flare onboard Wizard and Northwestern. Time Bandit has a dangerous electrical short. On Cornelia Marie, Phil’s health deteriorates. Early Dawn runs headlong into high seas when its greenhorn falls asleep at the wheel.
YES, there's going to be lots of Sig losing it this season, as well as lots of dumb greenhorn problems. However, I'm worried about Captain Phil.
Who will sit in the Cornelia Marie wheelhouse if Captain Phil is forced (due to smoking-related health problems, I'm sure) to retire to Seattle and ride his custom Harleys around all day instead of mining the mighty Bering for red gold? It looks like Phil's son deckhand Jake will get a promotion sooner than he expected.
I cannot fucking wait thirteen more days for "Deadliest Catch" to kick off what will undoubtedly be its deadliest season yet, rife with violent maritime thrills, shipboard buffoonery, and smoking hot Scandinavians from the P-N-Dub. The only thing I'm disappointed about is that the F/V Farwest Leader, which boasted Ragnhild, the hottest Norwegian cook in the fleet, is no longer on the show. However, the proliferation of other hot Vikings (particularly those with the surname Hansen) can ideally fill the empty hole left by Ragnhild's departure.
If for some reason you don't watch this mind-blowingly awesome show, I strongly advise going to the Discovery Channel at 9 on April 15th. Once you go "Deadly," you never go back.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hot guys, I LOVE IT, TV
Boo hoo, I don't have the HIV
I make a point of getting HIV tested at least twice a year. For one thing, I'm a virologist by profession, and I know that if (God forbid) I did get the HIV, the most important thing to do for long-term survival is get on a HAART regimen immediately. For another, I work with engineered HIV viruses, and while if I accidentally infected myself with those I would just express EGFP rather than develop AIDS since they are incapable of going through the viral replication cycle, I could still register as positive on a HIV test as these pseudotyped lentiviruses contain Gag-Pol proteins from HIV-1. I think it's important for me to stay abreast of my HIV status.
There's all kinds of rules and regulations associated with HIV testing. By law, you can't get HIV test results over the phone, you have to sign a consent, you have to receive counseling about HIV with it, etc. I've fortunately never received the counseling that comes along with a positive HIV test result, but I've gotten the negative HIV test result counseling numerous times. At Columbia Student Health Services, this consists of my doctor harping on me about condom use and giving me a piece of paper explaining how I should deal with the conflicting feelings I might have about my negative HIV test result:
Today you were tested for HIV using a rapid antibody test. Your test result was negative. Although a negative HIV test result can alleviate anxiety, in many people it precipitates a mixture of emotions. This is normal and expected. At first, you may feel relief knowing that you are not infected. However it is not uncommon to experience mood swings in the days and weeks following a negative HIV test result. Concerns about past behavior that led to the testing, the potential of infecting a partner or significant other, and feelings of sadness or guilt may follow the news of a negative test result. You may also wonder whether you will be able to avoid risk behaviors in the future.
I guess I'm not normal, because I don't have any concerns upon getting my negative HIV results. My only concern is how I'm going to celebrate not being afflicted by the scourge of our age. Usually my emotional response involves fist-pumping, shouting with glee, saying things like "Na-na-na-na, I don't have AIDS!", and treating myself to a stiff drink (and possibly a stiff dick, if one is available). I've certainly never experienced sadness that my CD4+ T cells aren't all HIVved up. This is normal? Normal for who?
Labels: epidemic geekery, Razzification, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Sorry, haters, I don't have AIDS, but...
Going to the doctor for my annual checkup is always a delightful experience. My doctor is this cute, relatively young British chick, and she always jokes around with me even when I have some sort of disgusting problem. Last year, for example, she took a peek inside my ears and exclaimed, "My God! Do you clean your ears with Q-Tips?"
"Yes, of course!" I said, scandalized. I may be a filthy whore, but my hygiene is solid.
"You're not supposed to do that!"
"I thought that you're just not supposed to poke them in far enough to rupture your ear drum..." I said.
"No! You're not supposed to because it packs all the wax in! You have enough wax in here to start a candle factory." Then she grabbed this high-pressure water gun thingy and lavaged my ears, and managed to extract chunks of wax the size of a large golden raisin from each ear. Since then, my hearing has improved markedly. My doctor laughed and quipped, "Well, this brings new meaning to 'wax on, wax off.' Stay away from the Q-Tips." I was so disgusted I haven't touched a Q-Tip since.
This year, my ears were in great shape, but that doesn't mean medical hilarity didn't ensue when I went for my exam yesterday. During the part where my doctor quizzed me about my sex life, she asked how many partners I had accrued that year. I told her. "Busy year for you. How many lifetime partners?' she asked. I told her that too (it's not as many as you might think, but it's getting into the high double digits), and she raised her eyebrows and said, "Well, you're getting up there. Men or women?"
"Both. But mostly men."
"Hmmm, last year were you having sex with women? I didn't make a note of that," she said.
"I have been having sex with women since I was fifteen. But I took a long hiatus from the ladies and have just started back with that in the last year or so," I explained.
"Do you use condoms?" She gave me a stern, maternal look.
"Most of the time," I said. "But sometimes the condom breaks." This is a flat-out lie. I do usually try to use condoms, but I would be lying if I said I didn't engage in high-risk sexual behavior from time to time (aka when I'm drunk). At least she didn't ask if I use dental dams, because the answer to that is a big fat negative. If I want to eat pussy, I want to eat pussy, not strawberry-flavored latex.
"So...gonorrhea-syphilis test, check. Chlamydia test, check. And of course we'll do the rapid HIV test. You'll have those results in twenty minutes."
"Fantastic," I say, hoping that I'll again get good grades on my annual slut medical report card. In spite of my skankery, thus far I've managed to be what Lil' Kim calls a "disease-free bitch," and I always like confirmation that my status hasn't changed and my cooch is still as clean and pure as the driven snow. While I'm still waiting on the results of the clap test, I'm still HIV negative. Boo-yah!
"Okay, now the fun begins," she said. "Put your feet in the stirrups."
Now comes the part of this post where I'm about to divulge a secret. J-Sexy once marveled that I even have secrets, because I'm so open and honest about everything going on in my life. I told her that I have secrets just like everyone else, but those secrets are stuff that many other people would consider unimportant. Most people keep secret who they sleep with, or what they do in bed, or bad things they've done. I tell the world about all that stuff, but that doesn't mean I don't keep other things to myself and this is one of those things.
"Uh, doctor?" I asked. "While you're down there, could I ask you for your opinion on something?"
"Of course," she said, while checking my cans for lumps. "By the way, your breasts are normal."
"Yeah, they're fantastic," I agreed. "But, um, this is kind of embarrassing".
"I'm your doctor," she said. "No need to be embarrassed. This is my job."
"I know, and you know I'm really forthcoming about everything else. It's just, well...there's something going on with my ass--I mean, with my, uh, rectum."
"What do you mean, there's something going on?" she asked, getting started on my pelvic exam. "Your uterus is a normal shape and size, as well," she added.
For the past nine months, I have noticed this fleshy protuberance that is growing right on my asshole. I first noticed this when wearing thong underwear became oddly uncomfortable. It's gotten bigger over time, and I've secretly been paranoid that it's some kind of sexually transmissible wart or worse, that I've got ass cancer. I've been dreading mentioning it to my doctor because...well, I don't really know why, except that usually my asshole is only ever closely examined on the relatively rare occasion when a dude is about to stick his dick in it, and by "closely examined" in that scenario, I mean "spits on it."
"I have this polyp, or something, growing there. Please tell me it's not a wart, or a tumor."
She checked it out. "Well, it's definitely not a wart, and it doesn't look like a tumor either," she said.
I felt relieved. That relief, however, was short-lived.
"It's a skin tag from an underlying hemorrhoid, I think," she said.
A hemorrhoid? A HEMORRHOID? "That can't be," I said. "I'm not even thirty yet!"
She laughed. "Young people get hemorrhoids, too. It could be from anything. Constipation, stress...sometimes anal sex can cause them. Have you had anal sex?"
"Not recently," I said. I can't remember the last time I actually had BS. I've had a few requests for it, but I don't do BS on the first hook-up. I'm not that kind of girl. I'm also not the kind of girl who often goes for a second hook-up. I am not looking for a boyfriend, and I like to get some strange.
"Well, we'll have to take care of this," she said.
"But it doesn't itch or burn. Isn't it supposed to itch or burn? That's what the commercials say."
"Not necessarily," she said. "Especially if it's not huge. We'll take care of it, though."
"So, do I get like some Preparation H or something? Or Tucks medicated pads or whatever?" I racked my brain to think of all the mysterious ass-related products my grandmother used to keep around her house. Apart from one time I tried (unsuccessfully) to get rid of a hickey with Preparation H because I heard that works, I have no idea what you can buy in a drugstore to deal with hemorrhoids.
"Preparation H isn't going to help with this. That just makes hemorrhoids more comfortable, it doesn't get rid of them. No, I'm afraid that I've got to refer you to a specialist."
"You mean like a proctologist?"
"I mean a colorectal surgeon."
"A WHAT? I have to have ass surgery?"
"That makes it sound worse than it is. They'll probably just anesthetize it and remove it. And don't worry, there's at least one woman on our list of recommended colorectal surgeons." Seeing what was probably a look of abject horror on my face, she added, "This is a lot more common than you might think. Most people just don't talk about their hemorrhoids publicly. It's probably happened to a lot of your friends and they've just never said anything."
Since nobody else is saying anything, I may as well so the next (relatively) young woman who goes to the doctor with a mysterious ass growth won't think she's a freak of nature when they tell her she has to get a hemorrhoid lopped off by a surgeon. Besides, I aim to please, and the haters will probably have a field day with this. Since the one hater's gleeful prediction last week when I was too sick with a cold to post that I have AIDS-related pneumonia has been disproven by my negative HIV test, Razzy Haters everywhere are probably depressed about having to go back to the tired fat/ugly/old/slutty routine. However, now that I have hemorrhoids, there's plenty of fresh material to inspire what will undoubtedly be hater gold in terms of anonymous commentary! So haters, feel free to hit my ass with your best shot.
Labels: assholes, gross, oh the horror, Razzification, Razzy Haters, sex, sluts
Daily Douchebag: cats
DOB: evolved circa 8000 B.C.
Occupation: being stuck-up assholes
Hometown: somewhere in the Near East
Current residence: everywhere
Douchebaggery: I definitely do not swing both ways when it comes to domestic pets; I am now and forever a staunch dog person and while I might have a taste for pussy sometimes, I can't stand cats. I am allergic to cats, so I have never developed any love for them. I can't touch them or be in the same room with them, and thus have never experienced any of this mystery endearing behavior that cats get up to sometimes. I actually don't think this behavior exists, and is something made up by cat fanciers to justify owning such asshole pets.
Dogs live to please their owners, even assholes like Chingy! In fact, the only reason I keep Chingy! around is because for all the evil mischief he perpetrates, he is ridiculously affectionate. My dogs generally behave themselves. When I go to sleep, they go to sleep. When I am ready to take them for a walk, they are ready for a walk. When I eat, well...okay, they beg. A dog's greatest joy is having a master who is happy with them. Dogs love their owners unconditionally. If I died tomorrow, my dogs would waste away mourning over my dead body. A cat, on the other hand, would probably eat my corpse.
Cats could give a fuck less whether you exist or not. Cats are interested solely in themselves, and they act like their owners should be grateful they get the opportunity to spoil them rotten. They are entirely se