Friday, May 30, 2008
I TOLD YOU SO!
Proving once again that my Smith College education and occasional taste for tuna has honed my keen lesbadar to an admirable accuracy rate, the gossip internets this week are abuzz that Lindsay Lohan is going to take advantage of California's decision to legalize homo marriage and make it official with her special girlfriend Samantha Ronson.
I publicly called this one over a year ago when LL Cool Jew spotted Lindsay Lohan sporting the following hat, which might as well be a set of pride rings or a pink triangle in terms of its lesbian-revealing powers:
I mean, if wearing a Smith College hat despite not having gone to Smith doesn't announce to the world that you're a clam digger, then I don't know what does. It's not like LiLo is a big fan of Smith's rugby team (and if she is, that's even more of a giveaway that she's gone gayelle). Girlfriend just wishes she could run around drawing giant chalk labias outside Neilson Library on Coming Out Day and boob-mashing hard to a Dar Williams CD with the androgynous BDOC (that's "big dyke on campus") set. Go Pioneers!
Well, the celebrity gossip world has been all over Lindsay's lesbish ways the past week. Apparently she was making out with Snatch-mantha Ronson on Diddy's yacht in Cannes, then showed up to a party wearing hers-and-hers rings on their wedding fingers and blabbed about her impending nuptials. This is after they've been reportedly doing all sorts of couple stuff, like walking around holding hands and spending Passover together at the Ronsons'. Yesterday, the greatest and most reliable newspaper in the history of print journalism, the magnificent New York Post, not only reported that Lindsay and Sam are going to walk down the aisle at City Hall in California soon, but that it's going to help Lindsay's image by making her an icon embodying "lesbian chic."
Alright, Lindsay! I honestly can't think of a better way to rehabilitate Lindsay's image than by settling down and licking some twat. And I'm pleased as a petted pussy about the fact that I called this OVER A YEAR AGO, long before it ended up on Page Six. I'm going to send the happy couple a strap-on to celebrate their happy day when they actually make honest women of each other. I'm sure they can find a use for it while honeymooning on an Olivia cruise.
Labels: celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, holy fucking matrimony, large exclamatory font, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, sluts
Rachael Ray hates freedom
If there's one East Coast franchise I love almost as much as classic Razzy favorites such as historical nonfiction about seamen, porn, Seahawks football, pepperoni pizza, cunnilingus, or R. Kelly, it's Dunkin' Donuts. They have great fucking coffee, and in college I lived off the stuff. I was delighted to see that the Jenzi Lounge down the street from me--an establishment I'd only been to once because the only thing they served was a drink called "the nutcracker" which was by my estimation grain alcohol and red Kool-Aid--had gone out of business and was being converted into a D'n'D.
However, my love for D'n'D has been tainted by a terrible marketing strategy on their part, namely the appointment of Rachael Ray as their spokesperson. In the past, I've actually offered a sexual bounty on Rachael Ray's head because I loathe her so deeply. Nothing makes me want to burn every last Dunkin' Donuts in the world like hearing her proclaim in her amphetamine-crazed rasp that her coffee is "delish." Luckily, there's hope. I had heard a bit of news about this previously, but hadn't really paid attention due to conditioning myself to tune out anything involving "Rachael Ray" for the sake of my fellow man, as her very name makes me feel like going on a murder spree. However, devout Razzyphile L&L e-mailed this to me, and I decided I couldn't ignore it since clearly I am not alone in my militant anti-Rachael Ray sentiments. This also represents the first time I've felt anything like admiration towards Michelle Malkin (I mean, I'm a Republican, but I'm a McCain Republican, not one of those irrational blithering neo-con fuckwits).
From: L&L (lnl@razzyphile.ca)To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)Subject: The real and present danger hiding behind Dunkin Donuts
oh my god Razzy - have you seen this?
*Dunkin Donuts Pulls Ad Featuring Rachael Ray In A Scarf That Looks Too Arab!*
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Dunkin Donuts has pulled a commercial featuring pitchwoman Rachael Ray wearing a scarf because Michelle Malkin and other conservative observers thought the scarf looked too much like a keffiyeh, what Malkin describes as "the traditional scarf of Arab men that has come to symbolize murderous Palestinian jihad."
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/05/28/dunkin-donuts-pulls-ad-fe_n_103859.html
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Clearly Rachel Ray is a Terrorist.
Personally, I always felt it. The way she mixes chili ... her recipes ... that MAN voice of hers... her incessant yell-talking.
The real offense? That Rachel Ray lives and, that she just won't admit she's really a man. I fucking HATE this bitch.
Thank GAWD for the likes of Michelle Malkin and the other right wing fanaticals. Now I can enjoy my apple fritter knowing no evil-doer was harboured.
Phew!
xo
L&L
I not only stand in solidarity with L&L concerning her many criticisms of Rachael Ray, I think that pulling the Dunkin' Donuts ad is not enough. Not only should Dunkin' Donuts pull EVERY ad that has ever featured Rachael Ray, I think that the Department of Homeland Security ought to ship her ass to Gitmo and waterboard the bejesus out of her for her crimes against freedom.
Okay, fine, so MAYBE they sell those keffiyeh-esque scarves at Urban Outfitters so that the hipster morons of the world can take fashion cues from Yasser Arafat as well as Che Guevara, and maybe none of those dipshits have been hauled off by the thought police yet. However, I think that the combination of her PLO/Hamas gear with her ruining the reputation of a sacred American institution like Dunkin' Donuts constitutes some kind of Patriot Act violation. If Rachael Ray disappears to some secret treason court, then I could say with confidence that the Bush administration did at least ONE good thing during its eight years of tyrannical ineptitude.
Send some Blackwater mercenaries to her crib to haul her away already. USA! U!S!A! U!S!A!
Labels: assholes, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, terror, United States of Asskickery
Rotten Apple
It's a good thing that Apple makes awesome laptops, because everything else Apple does sucks and completely enrages me. I've already discussed at length my ambivalence about Mac ownership because their "I'm a patronizing asshole Mac AKA a Vassar dropout with horrific taste in women as evidenced by the fact that I date Drew Barrymore, I'm a fat, ugly, inept, Bill Gates-looking PC" commercials piss me off.
Their musical sensibilities are even worse than their marketing concepts. I've taken issue with Apple's taste in music since that iPod commercial with U2 singing "Vertigo." Every time I'd see the illustrious Appled-out silhoutte Bono with his stupid sunglasses going "Hello, hello..." and the Edge or whoever crying "Hola!," my blood pressure would rocket right into cerebrovascular aneurysm territory. Apple has continued to swing and miss with every musical selection since then. There's the annoying "1-2-3-4" by Feist that was constantly on polluting my football games with its inane kindergarten math and rhyming schemes. There's that "I'm a new soul, something something in this strange world, something something that is real and isn't fake" song touting the MacBook Air which I thought was also a shitegg laid by Feist, but it turns out it's actually her introspective female singer/songwriter doppelganger. Then, to truly convince me that Apple's taste in music is sufficiently infuriating to put me in the coronary care unit, Steve Jobs hired the king of all douchebags, John Mayer, to play at Macworld on not one but TWO separate occasions. Hiring John Mayer once to show up and deliver inane failed attempts at wit like saying that Garage Band and other Apple innovations are "like the opposite of terrorism" prior to launching into a live rendition of "Your Body is a Wonderland" is bad enough. To like his pussified music so much that you commission a repeat performance is completely inexcusable. It just goes to show that Steve Jobs is capable of doing two things successfully: making excellent consumer electronics and embarrassing everyone who owns one thanks to his brand marketing via relentless douchebaggery.
Well, John Mayer apparently jumped off the Apple train to hawk BlackBerries (which, consequently, I now hate), so now Steve Jobs and the idiots in his marketing department have retained the services of yet another shiteous band fronted by yet another of the world's top 10 most unfuckable so-called "rock stars." iTunes users, behold...your music software is now inextricably linked to the testicle-shriveling falsetto renderings of Chris Martin and Coldplay.
This was only natural, considering Chris Martin not only seems like the guy who runs around saying snobby shit about OS X and its supposed awesome power when he's not perfecting his dreamy interpretive dance-flavored performance routine, he actually named his firstborn "Apple." I bet he jumped at the prospect of succeeding John Mayer as the pretentious face of the iPod marketing whore.
Before all the Coldplay apologists (like the vehement John Mayer apologists who love sending me e-mails and writing comments implying that I know nothing about music because I don't like John Mayer's watered-down sensitive-boy take on the blues) start getting their passive-aggressive condescending on, let me just ask WHY people actually like this trash? Is it because Chris Martin looks like a hipster cross between Dr. Gregory House and Luke Perry on some sort of gay intergalactic beach with smoke machines and some people think that's actually cool? Or is it because the lyrics to Coldplay songs about street-sweeping (and not in the spraying-bullets-from-a-TEC 9 context T.I. often uses, but in the employing-ham-handed-broom-related-metaphors context) are so fucking profound? Or is it because the band writes beautiful melodies that all sound the same? I'd actually really like to know, and there must be a lot of people out there who can tell me, since this "Vida La Vida" crap is the number one single on iTunes right now (rather than what it should be, namely "Hair Braider" by a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly). Amazingly, some people are not filled with murderous rage every time Mr. Gwyneth Paltrow starts caterwauling about his feelings, and even enjoy it. I'd like to know why, because like every other celebrity spokesho that Apple has ever selected, hearing Chris Martin sing makes me want to stop using iTunes out of sheer spite.
Please, someone, explain this to me. Apple keeps selling their shit despite these commercials, so they must be doing something right. Either their sales continue because they make products so good that people are capable of ignoring their intolerable advertisements, or people actually like Coldplay and other assorted similar fucktards. I like to think it's the former, but I'd probably be wrong. So let's go, Coldplay-loving Apple snobs. Get on the comment board and tell me that I know nothing about their dick-tucking brilliance!
Labels: capitalism, celebrities, John Mayer sucks, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harvey Korman
DOB: February 15, 1927
DOD: May 29, 2008
Occupation: actor, hot piece
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: a funeral home in Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Not being a necrophile, I'm not really interested in hitting it with Harvey's corpse. I am, however, interested in lauding his career, since he was in one of the greatest movies of all time: Mel Brooks's Western parody and masterpiece Blazing Saddles.
Blazing Saddles is probably one of the most politically incorrect movies I've ever seen, and it's awesome. I think it explains a lot concerning my inherent offensiveness level now that I grew up quoting lines like "Wait a minute while I whip it out" and "You said rape twice...I like rape." Nowadays, a movie like Blazing Saddles would probably never be made, because nobody not named Dave Chapelle could get away with dressing a black man in Klan robes and presenting this as humorous. Nor would modern day audiences find dialogue such as "Alright, we'll give land to the niggers and the chinks, but we don't want the Irish!" to be side-splittingly funny. The genius of Blazing Saddles lies in its script taking some of the most offensive, despicable societal customs (ie: flagrant racism and bigotry) and satirizing them in a manner that is completely and unabashedly hilarious. I've probably seen Blazing Saddles 50 times, and I still laugh out loud hard when I watch it.
Harvey Korman plays corrupt political boss Hedley Lamarr in this movie, and he's brilliant. I never saw any of Harvey Korman's other work (with the possible exception of his voice-overs in "Tom and Jerry" cartoons), but his work in Blazing Saddles alone is an achievement of the highest order. When he says florid lines like, "My mind is a raging torrent, flooding with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives" it's the perfect set-up for his henchman to say, "Goddammit, Mr. Lamarr, you use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore." Nobody else could call stampeding cattle through the Vatican "kinky" with quite the same panache as Harvey Korman. If you don't believe me, watch this classic scene:
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
Taggart: We'll work up a "number 6" on 'em.I salute Harvey Korman for his outstanding skills as a thespian, and hope that his soul has found repose being totally hysterically funny in the afterlife alongside Madeline Kahn's. Rest in hilarity, Harvey.
Lamarr: "Number 6?" I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that one.
Taggart: Well, that's where we go a-ridin' into town, a whampin' and whompin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life. Except the women folks, of course.
Lamarr: You spare the women?
Taggart: Naw...we rape the shit out of 'em at the Number 6 dance later on!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, movies, people who died
Daily Douchebag: Wellbutrin XL
DOB: first synthesized in 1966, patented in 1974, FDA approved in 1985
Occupation: antidepressant, smoking cessation aid, hangover adjuvant
Hometown: GlaxoSmithKline manufacturing facility
Current residence: my medicine cabinet
Douchebaggery: My lame former shrink prescribed me Wellbutrin to aid in my smoking cessation efforts. I've taken Zyban (the name Wellbutrin is marketed under for smoking) in the past, and thought it worked pretty well. Plus, it didn't make me feel numb and emotionless like my brief post-abortion scrip Lexapro did, and I didn't experience any sexual side effects (obviously VERY important to me). Since I've been having trouble staying off the cancer sticks long-term, my shrink decided that long-term Wellbutrin therapy might help with both that and the stress issues which trigger relapses for me.
I don't know if I drank less when I took Zyban in the past or what, but in the past week I have had two completely incapacitating hangovers. Tuesday I couldn't even make it into work because I spent the whole day throwing up, and yesterday morning I spent lots of quality time clutching the toilet as well, and the afternoon experiencing the shakes so seriously that I could barely do any lab work. In both situations, I'd surely had lots to drink the night before, but not so much as to warrant such brutal after-effects. I'm an accomplished alcoholic, and it takes a LOT for me to suffer so tremendously.
Because I don't remember having such problems the last time I took Zyban, it didn't occur to me that Wellbutrin might be the culprit behind this until J-Sexy mentioned it.
"Razzy, you weren't even that drunk last night," she said yesterday as I picked green-faced at my steak at our post-doc's going-away lunch yesterday. "Do you think it might be because of your Wellbutrin?"
"But I took it before and I don't remember that happening," I said.
"Well, who knows? Maybe you drink more now, maybe you're older and it has different effects," she said.
Later she looked it up on the internets, and found some reported cases of people saying that Wellbutrin caused them to have significantly worse hangovers than they had when not taking it. That was all the convincing I needed to blame Wellbutrin for sending me into a miserable reverie of dry heaving after only 6 or 7 beers, which may sound like a lot to some people, but to me sounds like just the right amount for a barbecue on a school night. I'm a champion boozer, so a six pack is no big deal.
I'm going to stay on the Wellbutrin because quitting smoking is absolutely imperative. Smoking has made my childhood asthma return with a vengeance, and is something I can't afford to do health-wise or financially. I've been smoking for almost 20 years, and smoking a pack a day for almost 15 years. This has to stop now, so in my mind Wellbutrin isn't an option. However, I'm completely pissed that this might mean I have to cut down on my drinking too. While that's probably for the best from a hepatic perspective, it's going to really cramp my style to have people think I'm wussing out on my normal rock star-caliber alcoholism. Thanks for ruining my reputation, Wellbutrin.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, drugs, medical drama, smoking
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Desperately seeking a naked midget
I've done a lot of strange and crazy things in my time involving naked people. However, until now I have never been in a position where I needed to hire a midget stripper. Or a "little person," if that term is preferable. I can't say why, except that I need a midget in our nation's capital who is willing to sexily disrobe and hump an ass. I mean a donkey, you pervs! A stuffed donkey!
I did a little searching on the internets, and I found that here in New York there is an agency dedicated to midget strippers called "Dwarf Entertainment." Apparently stripping can be a lucrative career for little people, particularly those willing to dress like Elvis and then take it all off. Well, they BETTER take it all off. There's nothing that irks me more than a male stripper who doesn't take off the G-string. If I want to see a naked chest, I'll check out my own hot tits. I'm not paying a male stripper to see his muscle definition. If a dude wants me to show him the money, then he better show me his weiner.
Unfortunately, there is no equivalent service provider in Washington, DC. So if anyone has any clue where I might find someone who can fit the bill, holler at your girl.
Labels: intentional buffoonery, nudity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sterling Fryou
RAZZY Note: this is not actually Sterling Fryou, but some other random nutria trapper I found a picture of on the internets. Despite his status as a local parish board member and world-famous bayou critter trapper, Sterling Fryou's handsome grizzled visage is nowhere on the internets I could find. A shame!
DOB: ???-the late 1930s? He's old.
Occupation: nutria trapper
Hometown: Morgan City, Louisiana
Current residence: Morgan City, Louisiana
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: LL Cool Jew and I have taken our nutria obsession to a whole new level: specifically, stalking elderly Cajun nutria trappers on the internets. I swear that when I get down to Louisiana, we are going to eat nutria if we have to trap one ourselves. I even took out an ad on Lafayette, Louisiana's Craigslist searching for nutria jerky, and thus far have gotten no responses. I am getting very frustrated by this.
Razzy: btw, still no hits on craigslist re: the nutria query :(
LL Cool Jew: GUH
Razzy: who knew this shit was so hard to get?
Razzy: i thought there were nutria everywhere!
LL Cool Jew: well here's the thing
LL Cool Jew: i guess people trap and eat
LL Cool Jew: there's not like, a nutria processing plant or anything.
Razzy: the idea of us trapping one is hilarious
Razzy: i'm imagining us traipsing around the bayou
Razzy: you trying to walk in a pair of five-inch heels
Razzy: me freaking out about spiders
LL Cool Jew: no no
LL Cool Jew: i'll be in flip flops for shizzle
Razzy: i don't even know how to "trap" anything
Razzy: the only thing i know about it
Razzy: is that in wa state
Razzy: there are always voter initiatives to "ban cruel traps"
Razzy: i'm all for cruel traps if they lead to nutria consumption!
LL Cool Jew: well if you watch andrew zimmern tonight
LL Cool Jew: you will see that trapping nutria involves a pirogue and a baseball bat
Razzy: right
Razzy: we'd have no problem picking up a louisville slugger
Razzy: but i'm betting you don't have a pirogue at your disposal
LL Cool Jew: you'd be right about that
LL Cool Jew: they are fast and tricksy though
LL Cool Jew: maybe if we played them the bongo bong song...
LL Cool Jew was determined that I should watch the part of "Bizarre Foods" where Andrew Zimmern, big New York queen that he is, goes nutria trapping. That night, she texted "nutria time!" to remind me that it was on right after "Deadliest Catch." I flipped over to the Travel Channel to see Andrew Zimmern getting into a boat with an old Cajun named Sterling Fryou and heading off the nutria trapping grounds. Sterling explains how you need to set nutria traps on the nutria game trails (identifiable because the nutria destroy all vegetation in their path), then hit them on the head with a large stick called "the eliminator." Then Sterling gutted the nutria, brought it back to his trapping shack, and cooked it with some squirrel for Andrew Zimmern, who pronounced it "lean, and not swampy at all."
Razzy: Sterling fryouRazzy: 2 bad u dont have a pirogueLL Cool Jew: or an eliminatorLL Cool Jew: we need 2 contact sterling fryouRazzy: Want nutria!Razzy: Nutriatritious. Bongo bongLL Cool Jew: lean. not swampyLL Cool Jew: hit im in th headRazzy: Must contact fryouLL Cool Jew: sterling is awsm. turduckens up next.Razzy: Im goin 2 bed so i can b fresh 4 the sterling fryou hunt tomorrow
I didn't even need to conduct the Sterling Fryou hunt, since LL Cool Jew got on the internets and discovered that he is a eucharistic minister at St. Andrew's Catholic Church in Amelia, Louisiana. She e-mailed me excitedly:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtyhumanitiesgrantgivers.org)http://standrewcentral.org/ministers_schedule.html
The website of St. Andrews Parish Church in Amelia, Louisiana lists the following in its Eucharistic Ministers rotation:
Ministers
Lenwood & Lula Gaduet 631-2315
Joy Gaudet 631-2419
Sterling Fryou 631-2792
Pooch Clements 631-2598
Carol Leger 631-2602
Gilday Gaudet 631-2419
Jeffery & Celeste Pennison 631-9325
Tracy Duval 631-2589
Trevor Benoit 631-0882
Kathy Acosta 631-0887
Teresa Theriot 631-9440
Dianne McAllister 631-2309
Peggy Clements 631-2271
Maybe if Sterling can't help us, Pooch Clements might be able to hook it up.
So now that we've tracked down Sterling Fryou's math, I think it's only a matter of time before I can persuade him to eliminate some nutria on our behalf and stew it for us Cajun-style in his outdoor cooking shack. Or if he's too busy to do that, maybe he can just hook us up with some jerky.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, gluttony, LL Cool Jew, sexy delicious animals
Daily Douchebag: Hillary Clinton
DOB: October 26, 1947
Occupation: exaggerating self-deluder
Hometown: Park Ridge, Illinois
Current residence: the bullshit I'm annoyed with happened in Billings, Montana, but she's been acting like a total retard from sea to shining fucking sea
Douchebaggery: The other day at some rally in Montana, Hillary continued to plow through what (God willing) are the final days of her campaign with the pathetic abandon of someone fully committed to being in denial about the fact that her ass has been summarily kicked. While rallying the few remaining supporters who haven't defected to Team Obama, Hillary said the following:
“You have to ask yourself, who is the stronger candidate? And based on every analysis, of every bit of research and every poll that has been taken and every state that a Democrat has to win, I am the stronger candidate against John McCain in the fall,” she said.
Hillary leads EVERY poll? Are you fucking kidding me? What crazy delusional polls are these? Polls asking Illaryhay Intonclay exclusively who she is voting for? They must be, because shortly afterward, she compared herself to Bobby Kennedy, saying that she should stay in the race at least until June, because that's when Sirhan Sirhan put a cap in RFK's ass on the primary campaign trail. The only aspect of this comparison that's apt is that Kennedy was getting smoked in the delegate race by Hubert Humphrey just like Clinton is getting smoked by Obama.
Not that it matters to me how bad Hillary fucks up and further divides her party since I'm voting for the officer and a hot piece known as John McCain, but I continue to be astounded by the ludicrous and idiotic bullshit that issues forth from Hillary's mouth. I tried to ignore it a couple weeks ago when she said that she appeals more to undereducated "hardworking white Americans...who had not completed college" than Obama, because I don't think having the ignorant racist vote in the bag is anything to brag about. I try to ignore the overbearing, ham-handed efforts she makes at rubbing elbows with the salt of the earth, like making fun of her pantsuits and doing whiskey shots. Most of all, I try to ignore her hubristic, dogged insistence that she's somehow on the road to victory even though her supporters are fleeing like rats from a burning tenement.
For years, I've thought Hillary Clinton was a disingenuous, self-serving liar. Now, as her campaign gasps its last pathetic tidal breaths, she proves my initial opinion correct every time she opens her fat mouth. Just admit you lost, shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Hillary Clinton, politics, retard rage
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Jesus would approve
My friend, Razzyphile, and fellow blogger Gayman e-mailed me the other day asking if I'd ever heard of the website bigchurch.com. I had not, because--and I know you will all be filled with disbelief at this revelation--I'm not trying to score honeys on the fundamentalist Christian dating circuit.
Hard as it may be to believe, I did not meet the mystery guy I like on bigchurch.com. It would be amazing if I had, since he's not even Christian. Furthermore, I suspect that bigchurch.com's members don't "share the same spiritual beliefs" as myself, unless it's opposite day and their spiritual beliefs include a deep devotion to alcohol consumption, hitting it with girls on the side, and daily masturbation. "Christian" sounds to me like "not Catholic" and especially "not a bad, sinful, depraved ex-Catholic schoolgirl bisexual slut machine a la yours truly." I'm not trying to meet a cheesy Richard Marx-meets-Jason Priestley type such as the Bible boy above, and even if I were, I'd probably go try to find him at an actual church rather than bigchurch.com.
Gayman did not, however, send me this link in the hopes that my prayers of finding a respectable man would be answered. Rather, he did a bit of research into bigchurch.org, and discovered that it's owned by an unlikely media empire:
I wonder how all those devout Christians on bigchurch.com would feel knowing that their dating website is owned by one of the world's most infamous porn empires. I'm pretty sure that even if the folks seeking pious future spouses on bigchurch.com don't approve of or consider Penthouse's content congruous with their spiritual beliefs, Jesus would be down. He was always partying with hookers, tax collectors, lepers, and the other sinful freaks of greater Galilee and Judea, so I imagine he'd be just fine with pornographers diversifying their brands to grab some market share in the world of online Christian dating. Okay, maybe it's not exactly what Jesus would do himself, but I bet he's cool with it.
I wonder how all those devout Christians on bigchurch.com would feel knowing that their dating website is owned by one of the world's most infamous porn empires. I'm pretty sure that even if the folks seeking pious future spouses on bigchurch.com don't approve of or consider Penthouse's content congruous with their spiritual beliefs, Jesus would be down. He was always partying with hookers, tax collectors, lepers, and the other sinful freaks of greater Galilee and Judea, so I imagine he'd be just fine with pornographers diversifying their brands to grab some market share in the world of online Christian dating. Okay, maybe it's not exactly what Jesus would do himself, but I bet he's cool with it.
And since my Aunt Jesus is in the market for a sanctimonious scripture-spouting boyfriend, maybe I should pass along the link to bigchurch.com to her. Then at her wedding reception, I'll give a totally inappropriate impromptu speech thanking Penthouse AND God for bringing them together. Man, that would be so awesome.
Labels: Aunt Jesus, capitalism, correspondence, Dear God, internet domination, porn, Razzyphiles
A new item on the menu at Chez Chingy!
Last weekend, barbecue season started in St. Nicholas Park on account of the lovely weather and the beginning of summer. While I love summer and I love barbecues, I do not love when these things invade my local park. Barbecues in the park mean that there is often barbecue refuse around for my dogs to consume. This is very bad, because most of the refuse is chicken bones, which dogs aren't supposed to eat. Caesar is a notorious chicken bone hound, and he's extremely sneaky about it. Sometimes he'll act like he's sniffing something like he's going to piss on it, and the next thing I know, I hear crunching and realize that he's deftly scooped up some errant bone I didn't see. Then I have to pry Caesar's giant jaws open and try to fish the bone out of this throat before he swallows it. He is a smart dog, so he continues to refine his covert bone-consuming methods and I continue to fight a losing battle against his appetite for barbecue waste.
Caesar is so bad about consuming street food that I even made up new lyrics to the song "Soul Survivor" by Akon and Young Jeezy from several summers ago. Instead of singing, "If you're looking for me you can find me on the block disobeyin' the law...a real G, thoroughbred from the streets, pants saggin' with my gun in my drawers," I would sing "If you're looking for me you find me in the park disobeyin' my mom...real Caese, thoroughbred likes to eat, tail waggin' with some bones in my jaws." Yeah, I know it's corny, but anyone who has met Caesar knows how severely obsessed he is with eating discarded people food (usually chicken or rib bones, but also he enjoys crab claws/shells, squashed french fries, and licking candy wrappers), and the song is fitting.
Anyway, just because when we go to the park during barbecue season I have to keep a close eye on Caesar, that doesn't mean Chingy!'s fat ass doesn't get in trouble concerning his scavenging tastes. Chingy! is particularly bad, because rather than just eat food waste like Caesar does, he eats things that no other creature save flies, roaches, or rats are interested in. For example, I've caught him eating indigent diarrhea, decomposing squirrel carcasses, cicadas, and garbage. Even worse, sometimes he opts to vomit what he eats, usually on my clothing, bed, or some other treasured object that it's hard to clean rancid dog puke off of. Recently, I thought that maybe Chingy!'s park eating habits were improving. I caught him eating some acorns a while back, and I actually encouraged this, since acorns seem kind of healthy, and God knows Chingy! needs to lose weight.
This morning, however, I caught him chewing something and since there weren't any oak trees where we were, I had a bad feeling that it wasn't acorns. I wandered over to Chingy! to see what he was so busy chowing down on. Someone had emptied out their barbecue on the grass, and Chingy! was eating old, half-burned charcoal briquets. I yelled at him and pulled him away by his collar, and he sneezed black bits of charcoal rudely all over my feet and ankles, then tried to return to his pile of Kingsford. "Goddammit, NO! NO, CHONGAY, NO!" I admonished him repeatedly, and he continued to plant his little paws obstinately as he struggled to turn back to the pile of charcoal. Finally I quit fucking around with dragging him by the collar and leashed him back up. When we returned home, I noticed that the entire inside of his mouth looked like a fucking coal mine.
While I suppose that discarded barbecue charcoal is better than vagrant shit in terms of what Chingy! could be eating, I imagine that it's probably not very healthy, even for a garbage disposal of a dog like him. Besides, the idea of cleaning charcoal vomit out of my couch or duvet cover is not an appealing one. Chingy!'s achievements in foul culinary indulgences continue to ensure his reign as the most revolting dog in my household for some time to come.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Beverly Hills Chihuahua
DOB: September 26, 2008
Occupation: 50% warrior, 50% lover, 100% chihuahua
Hometown: Walt Disney Studios
Current residence: during previews at a theater near you
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally kids movies are something I avoid like the plague, since I hate both children and the cutesy storylines that appeal to them. Furthermore, any movie with a talking animal (especially where said talking animal plays an integral role bastardizing the culture and history of a magnificent ancient civilization like the Aztecs) gets a big thumbs down in my book. I also generally avoid movies starring dogs, because there's almost always at least one dog death, and I can't handle that emotionally. I started crying during I Am Legend, and not just because it was a godawful time-squandering piece of trash, but because I just couldn't tolerate watching Will Smith strangle his sweet Caesar-y German Shepherd. I can't even talk about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows without choking up, and you had better believe that I unplugged the damn TV within watching the first 10 minutes of Amores Perros. In every respect, Beverly Hills Chihuahua seems like the kind of movie I would hate for myriad reasons, which is why I'm so shocked that I kind of want to see it.
Part of the reason for this may be due to the fact that when LL Cool Jew and I were roommates in 2005, I lived with her little long-haired Chihuahua, Dulcinea. Although Dulcinea (aka "the D") is not without her challenges (in particular, frequent medical problems, a tendency to urinate uncontrollably when startled or terror-stricken, and a sneaky habit of furtively shitting on various furniture and/or carpets), she is a very, very sweet, funny little dog and I am extremely fond of her. Obviously, LL Cool Jew is too, since she went and got ANOTHER long-haired wawa, Sergio, to keep the D company. Even if you hate dogs, you can't say that these two aren't pretty fucking cute:
LL Cool Jew told me that when she recently saw the trailer in the theater, she embarrassed her husband BigBagel because she actually started clapping delightedly. While I don't think I'd get so excited as to burst into raucous applauding, I wouldn't be embarrassed by LL's enthusiasm. If she's in New York when that shit drops, I'll go see Beverly Hills Chihuahua with her, even if it means sitting in a theater full of hateful children. After watching the trailer, I'm convinced that this movie might not make me homicidally crazed. In fact, in spite of the fact that it has none of the three elements I consider critical to a good movie (murder, explosions, people getting fucked), and many of the elements I consider terrible (possible dog death, musical numbers, shameless revisionist history) I think I might actually like it.
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, the D
Daily Douchebag: boat
DOB: first synthesized in 1927, patented in 1952
Occupation: making bitches CRAZY
Hometown: the lab
Current residence: Ray J's hotel room
Douchebaggery: Yesterday LL Cool Jew posed a strange query to me:
LL Cool Jew: what's "club drug called boat", precious, eh?After a bit more research on the internets, I have come to the conclusion that "boat" is new slang for PCP. I had no idea people were still doing PCP. PCP, or "angel dust" as my grade school's visiting D.A.R.E. rep Officer Sokolik called it, seemed outdated even in the late 80s when my class received our drug education. In fact, when Rodney King was beaten for supposedly being on PCP, I was dubious even at age 13 that PCP was anything besides something for grown-ups to tell drug horror stories about. I've heard that being on PCP gave people super strength, made them impervious to pain, and made them insane, but I figured that as far as mind-altering psychosis-inducing drugs go, crack and (in my neck of the woods) crystal meth were realistically more popular with the hardcore drug set.
Razzy: club drug called boat? idk
Razzy: are you doing a crossword or something?
LL Cool Jew: no no
LL Cool Jew: i'm reading the celeb internets
LL Cool Jew: ray j was kicked out of a dc hotel for possession of marijuana "and a club drug called boat" ????????????????????
Razzy: per urban dictionary
Razzy: it means "1000 tabs of ecstasy"
Razzy: oh it also can mean "weed soaked in embalming fluid and laced with PCP. gives you scary ass trips. stay away from this shit, kids."
Razzy: per tupac, aka "trippin' on sherms"
LL Cool Jew: oh my
LL Cool Jew: LOL
LL Cool Jew: sherms
Certainly I've never seen anyone using PCP. Every once in awhile in college I'd hear an isolated report of someone freaking out after smoking pot and then attributing said freak-out to the weed being laced with PCP, but I'm pretty sure this was just a guess in most cases. I've managed to find a weed connection everywhere I've ever lived, but if I were inclined to do PCP, I would have absolutely no idea where to even get it. Certainly none of the dealers I've ever met trade in PCP. I guess now I know that in the extremely unlikely event that I decide to try PCP, I should ask around to see if anyone has a "boat" hookup. Given that most of my friends have real jobs and lives and that sort of thing, the most any of them ever do is smoke some weed from time to time and MAYBE indulge in some coke or some mushrooms every once in awhile. I don't expect that many (or ANY) of them would be able to score some angel dust. The only strategy I can think of that might work is to go exchange an egg at a random convenience store, find my way to an underground club, and look for the guy with the boat on his shirt. Okay, maybe that was an episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210," and maybe apart from Emily Valentine slipping it into an oblivious Brandon Walsh's Sprite, I've never heard of the drug U4EA much less it being sold by guys with large 4's on their shirts, but that goes to show you how in touch I am with any drug scene beyond the liberal arts college graduate pot scene.
I was always under the impression that as far as drugs go, PCP can make you especially psychotic and dissociative, and I'm annoyed that this is now making a comeback. If there's anything more aggravating than a bunch of fucked-up club kids, it's a bunch of them on some kind of hallucinogenic drug. I remember one time in college I went to this "rave" (as much as a party in the basement of a house at Smith College can be considered a "rave") and there were all these ugly girls wearing glo-sticks and baggy pants and dancing retardedly because they were all on ecstasy. The last thing I want to see when I go to a bar is a bunch of idiots having psychotic breaks because they overdid it in the "boat" department. I can just hope that PCP really does have the horrific consequences that Officer Sokolik warned us about back in 1988, and that these dumbasses start jumping out of windows believing they can fly and breaking into tiger enclosures at the zoo and other lethally stupid acts. The resurgence of PCP is the lamest thing I've ever heard of.
Labels: assholes, Bev Niner, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, drugs
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
New Orleans is awesome
I'm excited for my upcoming trip to New Orleans for many reasons. LL Cool Jew and I are going to nerd out on history, visit the Britney Spears museum, drive by the ruins of the Magnolia Projects where Terius "Juvenile" Grey came up, eat like pigs, and enjoy a few days being BFFs in person as opposed to over the phone and Gchat. Now I have yet another reason to be excited. Over the weekend, LL Cool Jew went to some mall to see the new Indiana Jones movie, and thought I would like the mall's policies:
THE MALL HAS A NO KIDS POLICY! And a policy so serious that they have a huge sign announcing its rigorous enforcement. That's fucking brilliant. I am in a state of deep swoon imagining the possibility of watching movies without annoying children making noise and generally bothering me. I'm going to write to every movie theater in New York and encourage them to enact similar policies here. It would make movies worth every penny of the $12 it costs to see them.
Labels: destroy all children, Dirrty Dirrty, LL Cool Jew
Daily Douchebag: the dumb boys I occasionally like
DOB: also no comment
Occupation: apart from tormenting my thoughts, no comment
Hometown: definitely no comment
Current residence: NO FUCKING COMMENT
Douchebaggery: Most of the time, my attitude about dating is "FUCK RELATIONSHIPS." My life has enough drama (legal threats and stalkers) and I am so busy with school and this blog that I generally think my life doesn't need the additional complication of maintaining a relationship. I spend a great deal of time convincing myself that relationships are akin to herpes: something to avoid at all costs lest it plague me for months to come. I'm pretty successful at doing so. A few years ago, LL Cool Jew asked people to submit songs that reminded them of me for a birthday mix CD, and THREE separate people suggested "Man Eater" by Hall and Oates. However, as much as I hate to damage my reputation as an unrepentant slut with a heart of stone, a supercharged libido, no sense of shame, and an ability to toss out former lovers like empty Heineken bottles, I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally like someone and actually want to date them. And by "date" I don't just mean "fuck and allow them to sleep over" but actually talking and getting to know each other and that sort of thing.
When this happens, it usually results in some type of disaster. The guys I tend to like are either assholes or not interested or both. Furthermore, I'm terribly incompetent at playing coy and hard-to-get and all the subtle girl crap you are supposed to do to attract a boy's mind as well as his penis. I usually try really hard to act like I don't care, which then leads the object of my affections to think I don't, which then frustrates me and finally causes me to say "DUH, IDIOT, I TOTALLY LIKE YOU!" or something similarly inappropriate and frightening, and scares the guy off permanently.
I'm not looking to get married, or even to have a serious boyfriend. I'm not desperate for companionship, but I also am not dedicated to my fortress of solitude. When I meet someone who I consider quality and who I think I am compatible with, I usually would just like to get to know them better and see what happens. However, I'm terrible at getting to know dudes better outside of the Biblical context. I'm so afraid that they will reject me as a person that when I'm in a position to initiate something beyond sex that I pay a lot of lip service to my cold-hearted emotionless skank qualities and unfortunately they usually buy it. One guy I liked a while back ended up being so put off by this routine that he avoided me and acted weird after we had sex, and then when I confronted him about it, he said he was not the type who sleeps around and wanted to ignore me forever, I said something along the lines of, "YOU ASSHOLE, I LIKED YOU!" and then he was wearing my scotch. I was so mortified by my behavior and handling of the situation that I wrote a big crybaby post about it and have avoided grad student parties ever since.
I am absolutely no good at all at liking people, which is why I'm currently pissed at myself for being in that condition now. Because I value the guy I like now as a person, I'm determined not to fuck it up with any drunken confessions and/or scotch-tossing, so I overcompensate by fronting hard like we are just friends. I figure that if moves are to be made, he needs to make them so I don't fuck the whole thing up irreparably with my incompetence. This has worked in terms of not scaring him off and maintaining our friendship, but I worry that he doesn't know I like him, and this in turn will prevent him from making any moves if he likes me in return. I've been told that I'm intimidating to guys, and presumably this contributes to the lack of move-making on his end and results in me being cockblocked by my own magnificent awesomeness. It's also possible that he's not that into me and just wants to be friends, but I don't know because I suck so righteously at the kind of feminine tricks that can tease this information out of a dude.
I was bitching to LL Cool Jew about this, and she gave me the most on-point analysis I've ever heard of why I have a hard time reeling in the dudes I consider keepers.
Razzy: i'm totally reverting to my dumb inner seventh grade girl and being retarded about liking dumb stupid dumb guy i like
LL Cool Jew: dumb guy you like
LL Cool Jew: another one who needs to get with the mufung program
Razzy: the dumb guy i like is being totally dumb
Razzy: i mean, i can't tell if he likes me
Razzy: every time i think he does
Razzy: then i am like, but he's talking to me about his other girlfriends or would-be girlfriends
LL Cool Jew: i know you know what i'm goign to tell you right now
Razzy: ignore this guy because he's dumb?
LL Cool Jew: you put yourself out there like you're not capable of tripping over a dude
LL Cool Jew: which puts you in the unfortunate position of having to overtly tell someone how you feel
Razzy: i know, and i hate that
LL Cool Jew: which can make you way more vulnerable than you might choose to become.
LL Cool Jew: and it can totz backfire
Razzy: it's a lot easier to just get drunk and fuck someone and ask questions later
Razzy: oh it HAS backfired
LL Cool Jew: i know it has
LL Cool Jew: what sucks is that when you like someone, you're not in love with them - at all
LL Cool Jew: you just like them
LL Cool Jew: and would like to be taken seriously by them
LL Cool Jew: but being in the position where you have to "profess your like"
LL Cool Jew: makes it seem like you care way more than you currently do
Razzy: and then i come across as scary or too aggressive
LL Cool Jew: exactly
Razzy: EXACTLY
LL Cool Jew: and then they get all awful like she's so into me, she's sweating me
LL Cool Jew: (aka stupid [dumb guy from LL's brief single period of yesteryear for 10 minutes])
LL Cool Jew: and you're like
LL Cool Jew: actually, i hate you
Razzy: YES
So, if anyone has any suggestions on how to resolve this situation without "professing my like," I'm all ears. This guy is smart, funny, cute, nerdy (which in my book means HOT), shares many interests, and I wish we could go on a date or whatever the fuck normal people do when they want to get to know each other better. He also gives me a lot of mixed signals and I can't tell if he isn't feeling it or is feeling it but doesn't want to initiate things for whatever reason (fear of rejection, he thinks I don't like him, he doesn't want to screw up our friendship, he's waiting for me to make a move, etc.). I'm not going to chase him around and make a fool out of myself, and I just want this feeling of embarrassed vulnerability to go away. I'm tired of feeling like a Morrissey song: full of self-doubt, neurotic, confused, and generally very un-Razzified. I hate liking dumb guys!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, for serious people, hot dudes, overcompensation
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Cristy from "Intervention"
DOB: 1983-ish
Occupation: meth addict, alcoholic, nudist
Hometown: Los Angeles, California?
Current residence: "with a friend" after serving 90 days in jail (she was given a choice between two years of treatment or jail, and she chose jail)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Over the holiday weekend, I went to spend some tanning time with my buddy CorporateCard on the roof of her apartment building. After the sun went down and we exhausted a couple sixers, we went back to her apartment to spend some quality time with the old idiot box. Earlier we had been talking about the extremely depressing but nonetheless riveting TV show "Intervention," and CorporateCard told me there was one episode she had "perma-saved" on her DVR that I simply had to watch. This episode is the tragic tale of Cristy, a drunken tweaker who may be one of the most supremely fucked up people I've ever seen on "Intervention." That's saying a lot, considering that "Intervention" has the fucked up people market cornered.
As far as the insane tweakers and boozehounds on "Intervention" are concerned, Cristy is one of the worst. She lives in squalor and spends all day either stripping, attempting to hustle alcohol from dudes outside her local 7-11, smoking meth, and doing a lot of meth math. She literally sits on her bare mattress naked, climbs all over the furniture, and spends hours scribbling crazy equations. She has a shower full of empty Popov bottles and a tendency to climb all over her furniture. At one point, her sister comes over trying to persuade her to eat, and Cristy grabs a forkful of noodles before throwing the entire container across the room, scales her beat-up dresser, turns on her boom box, and starts wrestling her sister. Bitch is out of her mind crazy, and the kind of crazy that you can't stop watching.
I realize that addiction is a very sad thing. It's something I struggle with, although I thank Christ on the cross that I just got into cigarettes and not meth. Growing up in an area so ridden with meth that there was a special crossover episode of "Cops" and "America's Most Wanted" in which John Walsh rode around Puyallup, Parkland, and Spanaway with the Pierce County Sheriff's Department meth squad, I can say with certainty that meth is some seriously bad shit. I grew up hearing my mom tell stories about how they had to evacuate the hospital she worked in because some tweaker came in following a meth lab explosion and contaminated the entire ER with noxious chemicals emanating from his person. There was once a story in the Tacoma News Tribune about some toddler in Graham who was horribly injured after somehow falling into a bucket full of anhydrous ammonia. Also, as an avid fan of the greatest show in the history of television, "Beverly Hills, 90210," I remember how Dylan McKay barely saved David Silver from succumbing to meth addiction by convincing him to flush pounds of meth and a rainbow assortment of random sketchy pills moments prior to the police raiding the beach apartment ("You're on the ledge, Silver...don't jump.") I know well that meth is indeed a terrible thing and Cristy's addiction is obviously severe and tragic. However, it's also INCREDIBLY entertaining. I think this is the most laugh-out-loud funny episode of "Intervention" I've ever seen.
During her intervention (which Cristy refuses to participate in unless she's allowed to drink a 40 during it), Cristy's mom starts talking about how it breaks her heart that Cristy gets wasted and runs around naked, and Cristy responds with, "Oh my God, that's AWESOME, dude!" Then Ken, the interventionist and a former meth addict himself, tries to explain that everyone is there because they love Cristy and they just want her to get better. She responds, "Well, I also want a big pot of crystal meth but that's not gonna happen." Before anyone can even reply, she demands, "Why don't we have some music up in this mother?" And before anyone can even answer that, she says, "The thing is, everybody, I'm just on a permanent good one that none of you will ever get to experience."
Cristy's wrong there, because we do get to experience her "permanent good one," at least if you made the wise decision to permanently save her episode to your DVR like CorporateCard did. I really am not into hitting it with insane tweaker boozehounds, but I could hit this episode of "Intervention" over and over and over again. If you don't believe me, here's the riveting scene where Cristy starts tossing Cup O' Noodles all over her tweak den. Trust that you will enjoy:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, sluts, TV
Friday, May 23, 2008
Boomers: The Wackest Generation
Like everyone else, I was saddened to learn this week of Sen. Ted Kennedy's cancer diagnosis. But I have a terrible confession. Inwardly, I experienced an undeniable, haughty jubilation. "That's right, Boomers," I thought. "Your era is coming to an end." Across the nation, aghast, stricken Boomers clumsily BlackBerry'd each other the news after retreating to the executive washroom to stare at themselves in the mirror and, perhaps for the very first time, contemplate their own mortality. Yes, Boomers – you never thought it possible while slinging mud at Woodstock or jumping the barricades at the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention, but YOU TOO WILL DIE!
As a Gen-Xer, of course I realize that my parents are Boomers, as are my beloved husband's beloved parents, as are Razzy's and etc. Duh, I don't want them to die! Individually, we love our Boomers – but as a demographic, THEY ARE SO ANNOYING! Here's why:
They refuse to admit they ARE The Establishment.
Yeah, that's right. What, you think that what little remains of the enfeebled World War II generation is still running this bitch? No, the world is racing against the clock to collect their oral histories before the last few of them start pushing up daisies. Just because you aren't rocking humongous Watergate-hearings-style, black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and grumbling about "kids these days" doesn't mean you haven't yourselves become The Man. Nothing chaps my ass quite like a rich, powerful boomer airing out his liberal laundry and railing against "out-of-touch politicians in Washington" or "greedy corporate pigs." Know who those folks are, dude? They aren'ts your parents' generation, because face it -- they're either invalid or dead. THE ESTABLISHMENT IS YOU, BOOMERS. You.
They refuse to retire.
Despite their visceral hatred for The Establishment, boomers demonstrate little to no interest in relinquishing their death grip on their cushy jobs bossing the rest of us around. Not only do they want to keep working past retirement age, those that do decide to hang it up are all too often followed by members of the seemingly endless boomer depth chart. They're like shark's teeth - there's always another waiting in the background to replace them. This leaves those of us 40 and under to wallow in the ranks of white-collar, low-to-mid-pay-grade servitude, waiting haplessly for the strapping boomers ahead of us to decide they'd like to take up wood-turning in lieu of work, since their sweet health insurance plans keep them strong as bulls. For the love of all things sacred, boomers, take your cue from Dennis Hopper already and RETIRE! Jump out of planes, ski the Swiss alps, take a hot-air balloon tour over wine country or whatever the hell else you think is awesome - God knows you can afford it!
They like to boast inappropriately and unimpressively about their crazy college days and "drug phase(s)."
Gotta love a boomer who freaks out and stages an intervention when his college-aged children get busted for pot possession by Dartmouth campus police, then in the next breath breaks into a gasconade about their mind-blowing, Carlos Castaneda-inspired peyote odysseys on the Hopi Reservation back in '72. You know who's taken aback by your forays into the world of hallucinogens? Your parents. Guess what? They're dead. Everyone younger than you thinks those grainy YouTube vids of hippie boomers dancing horrifically while blasted out of their minds on weak LSD are totally f'ing pathetic. You could never do as many drugs as Lil' Wayne or the incredible walking crack ho Amy Winehouse. How are we supposed to even be fazed by your wack nuggets of fake-me-out druggie nostalgia? You sent us to private school, remember (how progressive of you!)? Thanks to the spoiled, rich friends we made there, we surpassed your level of drug experience by sophomore year and STILL got straight As. Do you hear us bragging about it??
They have propagated the taking-over of university buildings as a means of protest.
Am I the only one who is already completely f'ing bored by the constant "this day in 1968" 40th-anniversary boomer nostalgia news stories that have become totally ubiquitous? My (least) favorite so far was presented recently by NPR "All Things Considered" host and uber-boomer Robert Siegel, and focused on the taking-over of several Columbia University buildings in order to protest the Vietnam War. In addition to being pissed about gym construction in a local park, "Members of the radical group Students for a Democratic Society opposed Columbia's ties to a think tank involved in weapons research for the Vietnam War," the story explained. "Mark Rudd, then-chairman of Columbia's SDS chapter, tied the two issues together, saying at the time that students would not attend a university that exploited black people and developed weapons to kill them and murder the Vietnamese. 'I see it as part of the enormous part of the anti-Vietnam War movement involving millions of people,' says Rudd, a retired math teacher who lived underground as a revolutionary for seven years. 'We stopped a war of aggression.'" DID YOU? FOR REALS? According to my feeble GenX memory, the Vietnam War ended in 1975, fully seven years after your slumber party at the dean's office. NICE WORK! Seems to me the war ended whenever the president f'ing felt like it. Now, forty years later, your big legacy on this front is that idiot college students will take over a building for any damn reason. How the hell is shutting down College Hall at Smith going to help Mumia Abu-Jamal in any form or fashion?
They are completely clueless about sex.
Much like their boastful prattling about drugs, boomers love to be "cool" about sex. Premarital sex, nonmonogamous sex, outdoor sex, oh my! Y'all were real sexual deviants. Problem is, since they can't be bothered to see past their own graying wangs, boomers have failed to keep pace with modern developments in sexual behavior and identity. This is best demonstrated by a trip to a boomer shrink, as Razzy recently discovered. It doesn't matter if the visit was prompted by your concerns with how much you drink or an unexpected death in the family - tell a boomer shrink you've dated a chick and the conversation cannot be re-railed. Since they are incapable of believing a queer person can be emotionally stable - that queerness can prompt anything but confusion, isolation, and/or self-hatred - you're forced to spend way too much of your expensive-ass 45 minutes convincing your all-knowing boomer shrink that no, you actually don't have any problem with your sexual orientation. "Impossible," the boomer shrink insists. "After all, I made vicious fun of fellow students I suspected were gay in high school and only recently realized it made me hip and with-it to have a couple of gay friends. And that 'Will & Grace' is so funny! But I digress...surely you've considered suicide at least three or four times. Queer people aren't HAPPY. You haven't considered suicide? Well...shouldn't you, now?" Yes, doc. Sitting in your office at this moment, it's true, I do in fact wish I were dead. Now write me a goddamn prescription.
They are the most offensive Obamamaniacs because they take personal credit for his candidacy.
Boomers are at their worst when en route to the Obama rally. As a friend of mine sagely observed after a recent such gathering in Oregon, the crowds resembled a "glorious-dear-leader" third-world throng. Since the boomers in attendance couldn't be bothered to mingle with the hoi polloi, many of them chose to take in the message of Hope and Change from the comfort of their kayaks. From their coastal enclaves, liberal boomers are smiling and slowly nodding with self-satisfaction as they watch Obama's Hitler Jugend-style supporters flip the fuck out like they were at a Miley Cyrus concert. Not only are boomers convinced they are personally and individually responsible for the fact that a black guy is being taken seriously as a presidential candidate, they also think they can be rejuvenated by voting for Obama because their kids are into him. A couple of glasses of Prosecco into a recent dinner with a couple of my mom's lady boomer friends who were in town for Jazz Fest, one of them declared to me, "You young people are for him, all of you are behind him, it's so inspiring, who am I to stand in your way?"
They refuse to admit they ARE The Establishment.
Yeah, that's right. What, you think that what little remains of the enfeebled World War II generation is still running this bitch? No, the world is racing against the clock to collect their oral histories before the last few of them start pushing up daisies. Just because you aren't rocking humongous Watergate-hearings-style, black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and grumbling about "kids these days" doesn't mean you haven't yourselves become The Man. Nothing chaps my ass quite like a rich, powerful boomer airing out his liberal laundry and railing against "out-of-touch politicians in Washington" or "greedy corporate pigs." Know who those folks are, dude? They aren'ts your parents' generation, because face it -- they're either invalid or dead. THE ESTABLISHMENT IS YOU, BOOMERS. You.
They refuse to retire.
Despite their visceral hatred for The Establishment, boomers demonstrate little to no interest in relinquishing their death grip on their cushy jobs bossing the rest of us around. Not only do they want to keep working past retirement age, those that do decide to hang it up are all too often followed by members of the seemingly endless boomer depth chart. They're like shark's teeth - there's always another waiting in the background to replace them. This leaves those of us 40 and under to wallow in the ranks of white-collar, low-to-mid-pay-grade servitude, waiting haplessly for the strapping boomers ahead of us to decide they'd like to take up wood-turning in lieu of work, since their sweet health insurance plans keep them strong as bulls. For the love of all things sacred, boomers, take your cue from Dennis Hopper already and RETIRE! Jump out of planes, ski the Swiss alps, take a hot-air balloon tour over wine country or whatever the hell else you think is awesome - God knows you can afford it!
They like to boast inappropriately and unimpressively about their crazy college days and "drug phase(s)."
Gotta love a boomer who freaks out and stages an intervention when his college-aged children get busted for pot possession by Dartmouth campus police, then in the next breath breaks into a gasconade about their mind-blowing, Carlos Castaneda-inspired peyote odysseys on the Hopi Reservation back in '72. You know who's taken aback by your forays into the world of hallucinogens? Your parents. Guess what? They're dead. Everyone younger than you thinks those grainy YouTube vids of hippie boomers dancing horrifically while blasted out of their minds on weak LSD are totally f'ing pathetic. You could never do as many drugs as Lil' Wayne or the incredible walking crack ho Amy Winehouse. How are we supposed to even be fazed by your wack nuggets of fake-me-out druggie nostalgia? You sent us to private school, remember (how progressive of you!)? Thanks to the spoiled, rich friends we made there, we surpassed your level of drug experience by sophomore year and STILL got straight As. Do you hear us bragging about it??
They have propagated the taking-over of university buildings as a means of protest.
Am I the only one who is already completely f'ing bored by the constant "this day in 1968" 40th-anniversary boomer nostalgia news stories that have become totally ubiquitous? My (least) favorite so far was presented recently by NPR "All Things Considered" host and uber-boomer Robert Siegel, and focused on the taking-over of several Columbia University buildings in order to protest the Vietnam War. In addition to being pissed about gym construction in a local park, "Members of the radical group Students for a Democratic Society opposed Columbia's ties to a think tank involved in weapons research for the Vietnam War," the story explained. "Mark Rudd, then-chairman of Columbia's SDS chapter, tied the two issues together, saying at the time that students would not attend a university that exploited black people and developed weapons to kill them and murder the Vietnamese. 'I see it as part of the enormous part of the anti-Vietnam War movement involving millions of people,' says Rudd, a retired math teacher who lived underground as a revolutionary for seven years. 'We stopped a war of aggression.'" DID YOU? FOR REALS? According to my feeble GenX memory, the Vietnam War ended in 1975, fully seven years after your slumber party at the dean's office. NICE WORK! Seems to me the war ended whenever the president f'ing felt like it. Now, forty years later, your big legacy on this front is that idiot college students will take over a building for any damn reason. How the hell is shutting down College Hall at Smith going to help Mumia Abu-Jamal in any form or fashion?
They are completely clueless about sex.
Much like their boastful prattling about drugs, boomers love to be "cool" about sex. Premarital sex, nonmonogamous sex, outdoor sex, oh my! Y'all were real sexual deviants. Problem is, since they can't be bothered to see past their own graying wangs, boomers have failed to keep pace with modern developments in sexual behavior and identity. This is best demonstrated by a trip to a boomer shrink, as Razzy recently discovered. It doesn't matter if the visit was prompted by your concerns with how much you drink or an unexpected death in the family - tell a boomer shrink you've dated a chick and the conversation cannot be re-railed. Since they are incapable of believing a queer person can be emotionally stable - that queerness can prompt anything but confusion, isolation, and/or self-hatred - you're forced to spend way too much of your expensive-ass 45 minutes convincing your all-knowing boomer shrink that no, you actually don't have any problem with your sexual orientation. "Impossible," the boomer shrink insists. "After all, I made vicious fun of fellow students I suspected were gay in high school and only recently realized it made me hip and with-it to have a couple of gay friends. And that 'Will & Grace' is so funny! But I digress...surely you've considered suicide at least three or four times. Queer people aren't HAPPY. You haven't considered suicide? Well...shouldn't you, now?" Yes, doc. Sitting in your office at this moment, it's true, I do in fact wish I were dead. Now write me a goddamn prescription.
They are the most offensive Obamamaniacs because they take personal credit for his candidacy.
Boomers are at their worst when en route to the Obama rally. As a friend of mine sagely observed after a recent such gathering in Oregon, the crowds resembled a "glorious-dear-leader" third-world throng. Since the boomers in attendance couldn't be bothered to mingle with the hoi polloi, many of them chose to take in the message of Hope and Change from the comfort of their kayaks. From their coastal enclaves, liberal boomers are smiling and slowly nodding with self-satisfaction as they watch Obama's Hitler Jugend-style supporters flip the fuck out like they were at a Miley Cyrus concert. Not only are boomers convinced they are personally and individually responsible for the fact that a black guy is being taken seriously as a presidential candidate, they also think they can be rejuvenated by voting for Obama because their kids are into him. A couple of glasses of Prosecco into a recent dinner with a couple of my mom's lady boomer friends who were in town for Jazz Fest, one of them declared to me, "You young people are for him, all of you are behind him, it's so inspiring, who am I to stand in your way?"
"I voted for Hillary in the primary," I deadpanned, precipitating an uncomfortable silence. That's right - even a boomer candidate is better than a boomer fad.
They're going to cost us the goddamn farm, y'all.
There are just so many of them, and they're going to live 10 or 20 years longer than our grandparents did. So while you're pumping your meager savings into your own 401k, convinced as we all are that it will not be augmented by payments from the Social Security fund into which we've been practically hemorrhaging tax dollars out of our paychecks, it's probably not a bad idea to set some of your nonexistant riches aside for the in-law apartment you're going to need next to your kids' rooms. Because - God love 'em - the boomers will be moving in before long, but not before they blow their entire savings on SUVs and NFL season tickets and Mediterranean cruises.
They're going to cost us the goddamn farm, y'all.
There are just so many of them, and they're going to live 10 or 20 years longer than our grandparents did. So while you're pumping your meager savings into your own 401k, convinced as we all are that it will not be augmented by payments from the Social Security fund into which we've been practically hemorrhaging tax dollars out of our paychecks, it's probably not a bad idea to set some of your nonexistant riches aside for the in-law apartment you're going to need next to your kids' rooms. Because - God love 'em - the boomers will be moving in before long, but not before they blow their entire savings on SUVs and NFL season tickets and Mediterranean cruises.
Labels: aging, Barack Obama, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Douchebag: placeholder
LL Cool Jew promised she'd have something good for today's douchebag, I'm just sticking this up for now to explain why there's no douchebag.
I'd write one myself and save LL's for Monday, but I don't feel like it, and frankly, I encourage all my contributors to write their own suggestions. Yesterday Morrissey'sHair suggested Morrissey for Daily Dude, since it was his 49th birthday. I don't think I could possibly say anything about Morrissey better than Morrissey'sHair, who is so obsessed that he actually goes to hang out with Morrissey fan clubs in various lame Seattle coffeehouses and has modeled his hairstyle after his idol, so I said, "How about YOU write it?" That was answered with silence, as I assume Morrissey'sHair was busy rendering legal services to the financially fucked, so I wrote about nutria instead. However, I still am leaving the door open for Morrissey'sHair to write about Morrissey or whatever else, and the same goes for my other contributors.
Ideally, all my contributors will churn something out daily, so there will be even less work for me and even more useless bullshit for your reading pleasure. Since that won't happen until I gently prod/force my contributors to cough up posts to match their ideas and get them in the habit of doing so, this placeholder post is where the Daily Douchebag should be. So get cracking finishing that post about how you hate baby boomers, LL Cool Jew!!!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: nutria
Aliases: nutria, coypus
DOB: entered fossil record during the Pliocene; introduced to Louisiana in 1930
Hometown: temperate South America
Current residence: various places in Europe, South America, Asia, Maryland, Louisiana, and the Columbia River basin
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: When I made plans to go visit my friend LL Cool Jew in New Orleans next month, she was regaling me with tales of the turtle soup we're going to eat, and the swamp tours we're taking, and the plantations we're going to, and somehow the topic of nutria came up.
"What's nutria, precious, eh?" I asked her.
She advised me that nutria is a type of beaver-sized swamp rat with big orange teeth that was imported to Louisiana from South America as an inexpensive food source for the cajuns of the bayou. Unfortunately, nutria never really caught on as a dinner meat except for a few places in Louisiana where some rural folks hunt it. It's greatest success at being incorporated into the mainstream Louisiana diet is probably its use as a beef substitute on sloppy joe day in the Louisiana public school system. I'm not sure if that's on the statewide elementary school lunch menu, but (LA native) Motherbucker told me it was a favorite in Alexandria where she came up. I guess the nutria population in southwest Washington state isn't as prolific, because I never heard of nutria being served to anyone. In fact, I hadn't even heard of nutria at all. Even more unfortunately, nutria have proven to be a wetland-destroying menace thanks to their burrowing and ravenous appetites for vegetation.
To battle the nutria problem, the people of Louisiana have tried all sorts of things. Currently the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries offers a bounty on nutria, and is also strongly pushing nutria as the meat of the future. Their website shares recipes for dishes like "heart healthy crock pot nutria," smoked nutria and andouille sausage gumbo, Enola's smothered nutria, and stuffed nutria hindquarters. After hearing about all this, I became extremely curious about trying nutria.
The last time I was home in the P-N-Dub, I was hanging out with my buddy HotLawyer and switching back and forth between the Mariners game and various food and travel shows. After I told HotLawyer what kind of dick vibes all the Mariners and the entire Oakland bullpen were sporting and speculated on which food show hosts were big sluts (Giada de Laurentiis being Queen Skank of Slag Mountain), we settled on watching the Gulf Coast episode of "Bizarre Foods." Unfortunately we switched back to baseball during the nutria-eating part, but just seeing the fat homo who hosts that show eating bear, possum, and chitlins, I became even more dead-set on popping my nutria-eating cherry.
Upon realizing my strong interest in nutria, LL Cool Jew has taken it upon herself to fill me in on any and all nutria information she comes across. She just finished taking a class about Louisiana history (since she works for some Louisiana historical society or something), and there was some discussion of nutria. However, it became apparent that, in terms of nutria being an accepted part of Louisiana culture, it's got a way to go. You can't just walk into any restaurant and order some nutria jambalaya; if you want nutria, you have to get out and trap it yourself. Since the idea of LL Cool Jew and myself traipsing around the bayou trying to set nutria-catching snares is nothing short of hilarious, we have been trying in vain trying to get a nutria hook-up. It seems our best bet will be to find someone who makes nutria jerky and beg them for some. I'm already having fantasies of eating nutria jerky on our way to tour the Britney Spears museum, and I was hoping that LL Cool Jew's Louisiana class would prove a boon to our nutria-acquiring efforts.
Razzy: oh congrats on getting an A in your herstory klass
LL Cool Jew: :D :D :D
Razzy: like you would have gotten anything less
LL Cool Jew: WOOHOO
Razzy: i'm sure it was your presentation about the jewish rice tycoon that secured your top grade
LL Cool Jew: :D
LL Cool Jew: you better believe it
Razzy: the only thing that concerns me
Razzy: is that maybe you didn't work the louisiana history community hard enough for nutria jerky connections
LL Cool Jew: all those people were from the Greatner NO area
LL Cool Jew: they aint got no nutria connex
Razzy: we gots to find some of those
Razzy: i've become almost pathologically obsessed with the idea of consuming nutria
So if any of you know somewhere we can get some pre-trapped and killed (and preferably jerkified) nutria, holler at your girl. In the meantime, here is the greatest nutria video on YouTube. I think the music of Manu Chao was made to be the soundtrack for videos of nutria being nutria, or as LL Cool Jew put it, "it's an awesome nutria jam."
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, gluttony, LL Cool Jew, sexy delicious animals
Thursday, May 22, 2008
My confession
I haven't received the sacrament of reconciliation in sixteen years. The grade school I went to forced us to confess prior to Christmas and Easter. Even the few non-Catholics had to go in and talk to the priest even if they couldn't write off their misdeeds with a few Hail Marys. Unfortunately, I hadn't really done any major sinning at that point so it was kind of an exercise in futility. I figured that merciful Christ would not damn me to the fires of Hell for fighting with my little brother or whatever small-time child's play sinning I repented. In high school, we had the option of going to either study hall or confession during Advent and Lent, and I only exercised the confession option once during my freshman year. After that I got on my unfortunate radical feminist jag, and rejected Catholicism for being too patriarchal. Well, and because there's no better way to perpetrate some rebellious teen angst than declaring oneself an atheist carpet muncher at your Jesuit high school. Anyway, the last time I went to confession was when I was thirteen my first semester of high school. I don't remember the sins I sought absolution for. After that, I opted for study hall and I have ever since.
Fast-forward to the present day, and I could assuredly benefit from some quality time with a priest in a confessional. I have done a hell of a lot of sinning since the last time I got my "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned" on. You could rephrase this to say that I've done a hell of a lot of premarital, extramarital, same sex, and/or group fucking since I was thirteen. The problem with me confessing these sins is that I'm not particularly sorry about most of them. Here and there, I regret times I've used sex to hurt people, or when I've handled sex so cavalierly and insensitively with someone that it fucked up my relationship with that person. However, I don't regret the fact that I stuck my face in a girl's crotch at fifteen and jumped on a dick at sixteen and have been doing that with gusto ever since.
There is, one thing, that I feel very, very bad about. I regret it deeply, and I feel that it is the greatest sin I've ever committed. I've alluded to it in the past, and tried to make light of it, but it is something that haunts me every day of my life. I need to confess it, but I'm still too much of a coward to hear what a priest might tell me. I think I'm afraid of being forgiven for it, because I don't know if I can ever let it go. Certainly a couple trips around the rosary will be insufficient penance. Since I'm too cowardly to seek the sacrament of reconciliation, I figure maybe I should confess this to the rest of the world. If I can give this up to the internets, maybe I'll be able to give this up to a man of the cloth and save my immortal soul from eternal damnation. Therefore, without further ado or pitiful showcases of my Catholic guilt, I'll just get on with the confessing.
In January 2004, after a Christmas vacation spent catching up with my stable of honeys in the P-N-Dub, I returned to New York. I noticed that my New Year's hangover never really quite went away in the sense that I began to experience nausea that became almost constant. At first, I attributed this to a stomach bug, since I am religious about taking my birth control pills on time and have been since the age of 16. When my monthly visitor did not arrive, however, I started to get a really bad feeling about the malady causing this. One night, my friend Miss Corbutt was hanging out at my apartment, and after a few drinks I finally articulated my secret fears to her.
"Dude, I think I might be pregnant."
"WHAT?!" she said.
"Well, I missed my period, and I'm throwing up all the time. I bought a pregnancy test, but I'm afraid to take it."
"It's going to be okay. Take the test first thing in the morning. I'll be here with you. In the meantime, have another beer."
So we drank and then went to bed, and then the next morning I braced myself. I knew I was pregnant. I didn't have to take the test to know it. Something was different with my body, and I could feel it. But even though I knew, I said a prayer that the test would prove this was all in my head. So I pissed on it and tried to hope that my instincts were wrong.
My instincts weren't wrong. I was indeed knocked up. I sat there, not knowing what to do. Miss Corbutt didn't ask what I was planning to do, or give me any advice. She just rubbed my back and told me everything was going to be okay. I told her that I just needed to think. She left me alone to do so.
I didn't really need to think. I knew what I had to do. The situation pretty much dictated what had to happen. I was in my first year of graduate school. I had classes and lab rotations. I didn't have time to become a single mother. I'd have to drop out of Columbia and probably move back to Puyallup. I'd become the unremarkable, economically and intellectually static woman I'd been working my whole life not to be. Add to it that on account of my brazen sluttiness, there were THREE candidates for Baby Daddy. I'm pretty sure I know which one it was, since Bachelor #1 had a serious case of whiskey dick, Bachelor #2 wore a condom and came down with prophylactic-induced erectile dysfunction, and Bachelor #3 gave me at least four cream pies. While I'd bet on Bachelor #3, I didn't really like the idea of involving him (especially since he was living with another woman) only to have the baby's paternity disproven upon its appearance. It would be pretty easy to tell whose kid it was once it came out, since Bachelor #1 was Arab, Bachelor #2 was white, and Bachelor #3 was black. It would be just my luck to have Bachelor #3 coaching me through delivery only to pop out a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby. The only thing that could make that worse is Maury Povich popping in to declare, "Bachelor #3, you are NOT the father." Needless to say, I didn't feel I had any choice about what to do. I just couldn't bring myself to put the wheels in motion.
I called LL Cool Jew, who lived in Washington, DC at the time. She is steady and manages to combine practical here's-what-we-do actions with lots of compassion. Sometimes you need someone to tell you what to do and make the arrangements for you. I had done the same for her with regard to a bad breakup the year before, so I figured she would be able to do the same for me. I figured correctly.
"Hey, gurrrrrlllll," said LL Cool Jew.
"Dude, I'm pregnant," I said.
LL Cool Jew was quiet for a moment as she assumed a situation-appropriate sobriety. "Are you sure?"
"Tottlez, dude. I just took a test. What do I do?"
"Can you come down to DC in the next couple weekends?"
"Can I bring Caesar?" I asked.
"Duh."
"Yeah, sure."
"Let me call you right back," she said, getting off the phone. Five minutes later she called back.
"So, rent a car for weekend after next," she said. "I made an appointment for you."
"Great. I can't wait to see your and Wmania's new apartment," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
That was it. That was how I decided to have an abortion. I asked my friend to do it for me and acted like it was an excuse to check out LL Cool Jew and Wmania's new digs.
For the next week and a half, my morning sickness grew steadily worse. In fact, I'm not sure why it's even called "morning sickness" since I was afflicted with it at all hours of the day. I got in the habit of carrying a bottle of Pepto-Bismol with me everywhere I went. Some of my classmates at Columbia eventually began to inquire about my health. I told them I had a lingering case of stomach flu. One of my classmates eventually suggested that I see a doctor, since it wasn't right for such an ailment to persist, as we got into an elevator following another riveting Cell Membranes and Organelles class. "It's actually not a stomach flu," I said. "I'm pregnant."
There was a collective gasp from the elevator full of first-year grad students. I guess this is the kind of information you're supposed to hide and be ashamed of, but I have an almost compulsive need to be honest about myself. If I have no skeletons in my closet, nobody can ever hold anything over my head. Besides, I am an absolutely terrible liar. So I just came out with the truth. Then I felt sorry for shocking everyone else, so I comforted them. "Don't worry, I'm getting it taken care of next weekend." Everybody was still shocked, so I just tried to act as nonchalant and emotionally uninvolved as possible, like I'd just informed everyone I was going to the dermatologist to get a mole lasered off.
The time came, and I rented a car and loaded Caesar into it (this was pre-Chingy!), and drove to our nation's capital. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and I drank wine and watched trash TV and made jokes about getting up early to be at the abortion clinic.
The next morning Wmania drove me to the clinic for my appointment at 8. It was in a suburban part of Maryland, in an unmarked, unassuming office building. "There's no sign," I observed. "Yeah, probably to keep the bombers away," said Wmania.
"That's comforting," I said. The waiting room was largely empty when I checked in.
"I'm here for an appointment to terminate my pregnancy," I said quietly, in the same tone of voice I'd use at a library or a funeral. I figured this was a somber occasion.
"Medical or surgical abortion?" said the receptionist loudly. My somber occasion was just another day at the office for her.
"Uhhh...what's the RU486 one? Medical, I guess," I said. The receptionist handed me some forms to fill out and said mechanically, "The purple form explains everything."
The purple form basically told me how the whole schtick was going to go down. They'd confirm my pregnancy, give me a shot of methotrexate in the ass to terminate my pregnancy, and after a week, I'd shove some misepristone pills in my cooch to induce a miscarriage of my dead fetus.
The waiting room started to fill up, and I waited and waited. Because the demand for the clinic's services apparently greatly exceeded its capacity to supply, they showed movies to help pass the time waiting. You might think that they'd show cheerful, lighthearted fare to lift the undoubtedly gloomy spirits of your average abortion clinic waiting room denizen, but you would be wrong. That morning they were showing Narc, an extremely violent movie about police corruption, drug dealing, torture, and murder. After a particularly lovely scene in which a dude blows his head off while taking a bong hit out of a loaded shotgun, Wmania said, "What the FUCK are we watching? Whoever put this movie in for this crowd was obviously smoking CRACK COCAINE." Whenever someone does something Wmania disapproves of, she always attributes it to the recent use of "crack cocaine."
Finally, they called me in. They wouldn't let Wmania come with me. I paid and made a lame joke about how, since I got airmiles for purchases made using my credit card, I should have abortions more often. The woman taking my payment did not laugh. Instead, she told me that I'd have to return afterward for a follow-up, and wanted to book the appointment then.
"How is February 14th?" she asked.
"Fine," I said. "It's going to be the most romantic Valentine's Day ever," I added. The woman again did not laugh. She sent me to a room for an ultrasound and then I had to piss in a cup for a pregnancy test. It took me an hour to produce a goddamn drop of urine. I attributed my urinary dysfunction to my constant vomiting. Finally, after I managed to piss, I was ushered into the gynecologist's examination room.
The doctor performed a pelvic exam on me. I remembered that she had the knobbiest knuckles I'd ever felt in my vagina. She brusquely advised me that I'd signed a form which legally obligated me to follow through with the abortion once I'd received my methotrexate, because otherwise I'd give birth to a deformed monster. I advised her that I was aware of that, and dropped a little science about methotrexate blocking proliferation of rapidly dividing cells by inhibiting dihydrofolate reductase. I told her she'd have to give me the methotrexate as an injection rather than a syrup, because I couldn't even keep water down. She told me to roll over and gave me a shot in the ass. Then she gave me a little packet of pills and told me to shove them up my vagina before bed in a week. She also gave me a prescription for Vicodin.
"Will I need this? Isn't this just going to be like a heavy period?" I asked.
"You might have some cramping," she said. "Just fill the prescription." Then, her clinical manner subsided and she squeezed my hand and shot me a kind, sympathetic expression. Even though her knuckles felt like ping pong balls, it was very comforting. "Make this as painless as possible for yourself," she said. "And avoid folic acid, it interferes with the methotrexate. But you already know that."
I left and Wmania escorted me out. I threw up in the parking lot. Wmania was very alarmed. "Holy shit, Razzy, pregnancy is like a disease to you!" When we got back to their apartment, I pointed out that the brochure the clinic gave me listed their phone number as 1-800-ABORTION. "Dude, I can't believe you fixed me up with this place by calling 1-800-ABORTION!" I said to LL Cool Jew.
"I did NOT call 1-800-ABORTION! They were the first clinic listed in the phone book, and it was a (202) number!"
"Whatever, you probably finished ordering new lenses from 1-800-CONTACTS and then figured you'd do the same for me by dialing 1-800-ABORTION," I teased her.
LL Cool Jew got rather indignant. "I SWEAR I did NOT dial 1-800-ABORTION!" I would have persisted in ragging on her, but I had to go throw up again.
After treating my nausea with a little medical marijuana, LL Cool Jew and Wmania took me out to lunch at Lauriol Plaza, which is the only place in Washington, DC I like at all. I'm a sucker for delicious fajitas. We ordered margaritas, and after a hilarious moment when Wmania decided to ask the non-English-speaking bus boy if they contained folic acid, resumed acting like my abortion was a great excuse for a weekend visit.
The next weekend, LL Cool Jew drove up to New York to keep me company for the actual fetus-purging part of the abortion. I was not in good shape. Despite my pregnancy being halted in its tracks by the methotrexate, I was still suffering from almost crippling nausea. I kept waking up in the night to vomit. In spite of my best efforts to joke about the situation ("Dude! Welcome to the party of the century!"), LL Cool Jew was extremely worried about me. She made sure the Vicodin was ready, she bought maxi-pads for me (trust that I am normally a tampon girl, but these are a no-no during an induced miscarriage), and she walked Caesar for me (a troublesome task given her penchant for five-inch stilettos and Caesar's tendency to pull hard on his leash). Finally, right before bed, I shoved the pills up my vadge, took a Vicodin, and went to bed.
Several hours later, I woke up feeling like my uterus was being rototilled. I tried to be stoic, but the pain was so severe that I started crying. I went into the bathroom so I wouldn't wake up LL Cool Jew. I sat on the toilet, where I realized that I was literally hemorrhaging. I was a fucking mess. Then I had to get off the toilet so that I could throw up into it. During this time, I bled on the floor. I started crying harder when I flushed because I realized that I had not only expelled my child into a toilet, I had puked on top of it and then unceremoniously sent it into the NYC sewer system. At this point, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door. I'm not sure if my whimpering or my retching woke LL Cool Jew, but she was up and wanting to know if I was okay.
I tried to convince her that I was just fine and would be out in a minute, but failed. LL Cool Jew let herself in to find me wiping blood and chunks of fetus off the bathroom floor between dry heaves and sobs.
"Oh my fucking God, Razzy," she said. "You are NOT okay."
I was a complete mess. LL Cool Jew gave me another couple Vicodin and helped me back to bed. I think I managed to clean up most of the floor before her entrance, so there wasn't much for her to finish. I couldn't keep those Vicodin down. I spent the rest of the night writhing in pain. I felt like someone was wringing out my reproductive organs. LL Cool Jew stayed up with me, stroking my hair and feeling bad about not being able to help me more. Finally, I managed to fight back the urge to vomit long enough to let more pain meds kick in, and fell asleep for a couple hours.
The next day LL Cool Jew and I stayed in bed all day watching Lord of the Rings and eating pizza. I felt a little better. My friend KatieScarlett came over to visit. I was so exhausted and finally able to eat that I fell asleep early while KatieScarlett and LL Cool Jew got to know each other. They ended up dating for almost a year after that. Nothing kindles lesbian love like a mutual friend's abortion.
I figured that LL Cool Jew and KatieScarlett's relationship demonstrated that something good could come out of what was otherwise a horrible and traumatic experience. I resolved to finish off the whole abortion experience on a positive note, so when I went back to DC for my Valentine's Day follow-up confirming my now-empty uterus, LL Cool Jew and I decided that it would be really, really fun to go to Medieval Times for some post-abortion clinic faux jousting.
After the clinic, LL Cool Jew and I went to pick up Wmania from her boyfriend's apartment. She said she would meet us outside, because her then-boyfriend probably didn't want us traipsing around in his den of WASPiness and messing up his golf tee collection (and I'm not kidding...this d-bag from Connecticut actually collected tees from all the expensive golf courses he'd played at). When we arrived, Wmania and said boyfriend were clearly having some sort of fight, as they were standing aggressively opposed and gesturing wildly. LL Cool Jew and I pulled up, blasting "Night Train" by GNR, and I leaned out the window with a Parliament Light hanging out of my mouth and shouted, "Happy Valentine's Day, lovebirds! I just got done at the abortion clinic and I'm ready to drink some mead and watch some fucking jousting, so get your ass in my rental car, bitch!"
Wmania's lame boyfriend just stared at us, clearly offended into silence. He muttered a goodbye to Wmania, adjusted the collar of his polo shirt, and shuffled off to dust his golf tees or whatever. Wmania, LL Cool Jew, and I proceeded to have a great time drinking overpriced Bud Light and shouting about whatever fake knight our seating arrangements required us to support. On our way out, we took a picture in some fancy photo booth that put a picture of us in front a background that said "Bad Attitude." As is my custom, I exposed my right breast for the photo, and only realized upon exiting that there was a large screen outside the booth displaying the picture of my naked tit for everyone in the mall to see.
"Dude, we have to get out of here before we, like, get arrested for indecent exposure or something," Wmania cautioned.
We left and proceeded to spend a lot more time drinking and carousing and forgetting the entire reason for my trip to our nation's capital. However, any distraction from this event in my life is temporary. Not a day has passed since then that I haven't thought about it. It does not escape my notice that if I had made a different choice, I would have a four-year-old today. I have dreams about what my child would have looked like. I can't forgive myself for doing this, but I can't punish myself for it either. I regret it constantly, but in spite of that, I would do the same thing if I found out I was pregnant today.
Well over half of my friends have gone through the same thing. Often they call me when they have to, because everyone knows that I have had the same experience (since my favorite means of coping is to pretend it doesn't bother me and make irreverent jokes about it). It is heartbreaking for all of them. One of my friends undergoing a "medical" abortion called me during the week between the methotrexate and the misepristone, crying and saying over and over, "My baby is dying! I can feel it dying!" Another friend called after her abortion ended and said, "I feel like a terrible woman. I feel like Medea." After assuring her that references to infanticidal witches of Greek mythology will get her nowhere in terms of coping, I still felt like a shit because I still couldn't offer her any tips as to how to get this out of your system. If there is a way to move past this, I haven't discovered it. I still think about it all the time. I'm in therapy because of it. Even if I use the impersonal nomenclature (ie: "terminating a pregnancy") that makes an abortion sound like a simple medical procedure, I can't escape the part of me that thinks I killed my child. I can try to justify it by saying that I killed my bastard to save my own life, but this is not a simple thing to think about or put to rest.
The sad thing is that so many women have gone through this, and nobody talks about how complex the experience is. When people talk about abortion, the discussions tend to be political (either "abortion is murder" or "keep your laws off my body") and don't even come close to addressing what it's like to actually have an abortion. I'm sure women exist who think abortion is very casual and can have one without thinking about it at all, but everyone I know, obviously including myself, has not emerged from the clinic unscathed, undamaged, and without a significant measure of grief and remorse. While every woman I know, also including myself, believes she made the right decision, it is not easy living with it. And writing this all down and putting it on display for the internets and the world doesn't mitigate this burden, but at least it's not something I've got festering away secretly inside me anymore. I don't know if I'll ever find absolution or peace, but now that I've confessed, at least I can hope I'm on the right track. Besides, now you all know, and as GI Joe cartoons used to advise me, that's half the battle.
Labels: Catholicism, destroy all children, for serious people, LL Cool Jew, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, Wmania
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the "Shaggy Defense"
DOB: May 20, 2008
Occupation: it wasn't Kells
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Cook County Courthouse, in the Chi
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Quite simply, because it is going to get Kells acquitted, and free him for touring to support his upcoming TP Fourth Quarter album. In turn, that will enable LL Cool Jew and I to geek out about how fucking awesome R. Kelly is without fear that the world's greatest will be snatched away by the so-called "justice" system and incarcerated in an Illinois state prison. What is the "Shaggy Defense," you ask? Remember that song "It Wasn't Me" by the faux-Jamaican singer Shaggy? She caught me on the counter...it wasn't me. She saw me bangin' on the sofa...it wasn't me. I even had her in the shower...it wasn't me. She even caught me on camera...it wasn't me. That's the Shaggy Defense, coined and as described by Slate's dedicated R. Kelly court reporter Josh Levin.
Of course LL Cool Jew and I spent a significant portion of yesterday chatting about this matter. Basically, we're not sure that Kells didn't bang this allegedly underage girl, but they'll never prove he did, and we'll praise the Shaggy Defense to our dying day.
LL Cool Jew: HAI ANDZI
Razzy: HEEEEYYYYYY
LL Cool Jew: R Kelly should have a papal name
LL Cool Jew: Innocent the Kells
Razzy: Innocent the Greatest
LL Cool Jew: "Kelly, wearing a dark pinstripe suit and a blue tie with diagonal orange stripes, his hair immaculately braided, tilts his head every so often, putting his chin on his hand to peer at the video from a different angle."
LL Cool Jew: you know, having attended a kells concert, i disagree with the following statement:
LL Cool Jew: "the R&B lothario's courthouse supporters are from a more uniform demographic: teenage African-American girls."
LL Cool Jew: actually, i'd say that the average age of attendees was a solid 28
Razzy: it's true, everyone at the kells concert was our age
LL Cool Jew: oh MAN
LL Cool Jew: classic, classic and unanswerable question:
LL Cool Jew: "How are we supposed to act when R. Kelly come?"
LL Cool Jew: INDEED.
LL Cool Jew: i'm reading this NYT article about him
LL Cool Jew: it includes the following quote:
LL Cool Jew: Mr. Kelly has owned up to unspecified missteps in interviews. He told the British newspaper The Observer in 2004: “In life, you have people that love to party. That’s me. People that love God. That’s me. People that love sex. That’s me. People that love people. That’s me. And people that make mistakes.” He paused. “That’s me also.”
LL Cool Jew: god
LL Cool Jew: he even talks like he's lyric-writing
Razzy: I KNOW
Razzy: he is truly the world's greatest
Razzy: in every way
Razzy: he is a star up in the sky
Razzy: a mountain peak on high
Razzy: etc
LL Cool Jew: i hope these girls get some recompense and therapy if they're messed up though
Razzy: well me too
LL Cool Jew: i mean, sucks that there are ELEVEN of them
Razzy: yes it surely does
LL Cool Jew: cmon kells
Razzy: indeed
LL Cool Jew: make them show you some id before you get knee-deep into it
Razzy: show some id before you get too deep
Razzy: JINX!
LL Cool Jew:: WHOA
Razzy: like, i don't think kells targets 13-year-olds though
Razzy: i think he just probably effs whatever girls show up backstage, ass hurtin'
LL Cool Jew: 17-year-olds, maybe
LL Cool Jew: but if you're going to give kells a hard time for screwing a 17yrold
LL Cool Jew: then go lock up milo ventimiglia for banging hayden panettiere
Razzy: you can't, the age of consent in illinois is 17
LL Cool Jew: god it is like truly embarrassing that i can spell "ventimiglia" and "panettiere"
Razzy: FOR SERIOUS
Razzy: omg, on that note
Razzy: hayden panettiere is auctioning off dinner with her on ebay
LL Cool Jew: god i know
LL Cool Jew: hayden and the whales
Razzy: to help SAVE THE FUCKING WHALES
LL Cool Jew: "again"
Razzy: i would bid if i had money, go to dinner, and order dolphin
LL Cool Jew: i love that the org is called, savethewhalesagain.org
LL Cool Jew: like save the whales the sequel
LL Cool Jew: save the whales part deux
Razzy: free willy 2
LL Cool Jew: TOTZ
Razzy: i think that savekellsagain.org is a more worthy cause
LL Cool Jew: savekellsagain(andagain).org
Razzy: savekellsinfinity.org
LL Cool Jew: love it
LL Cool Jew: it really doesn't sound like the prosecution has much though
Razzy: no it doesn't
LL Cool Jew: how are you going to convict if the alleged victim staunchly denies
Razzy: i've been saying this for months
Razzy: AND her parents deny it
LL Cool Jew: she probably got PAAAAAAAAAAAID
Razzy: i think the defense will call her to testify that it wasn't her
Razzy: and that's it
Razzy: they can't prove kells is the guy in the video
Razzy: they can't prove who the girl is, much less that she's underage
LL Cool Jew: kells' consigliere paid a conciliatory visit to the south side
LL Cool Jew: with a briefcase full of cash
Razzy: it's a buttload of reasonable doubt
LL Cool Jew: good thing TP4 is coming out in time to replenish the old litigation coffers
Razzy: YES
Razzy: and after he's acquitted
Razzy: it's WORLD TOUR TIME for mr. showbiz
I'm telling you, the Shaggy Defense is going to free up the Pied Piper of R&B to double up with all the 17-year-old honeys he wants. And I'm sure by now, you are all thinking that the sooner this happens, the better, because you're undoubtedly sick and tired of hearing me wax on and on about how the prosecution will never prove that Kells is a child pornographer. Go Shaggy Defense! You saw him banging a minor? It WASN'T KELLS!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: John Mayer and his supposedly giant weiner
DOB: October 16, 1977
Occupation: pussified "rock star," fucker of ugly celebrity bitches
Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Deep down, I truly hate John Mayer so much. I've discussed this previously and at length, and even typing the name "John Mayer" annoys me to no end. However, recent developments in celebrity gossip have compelled me to opine once more regarding the depths of douchebaggery to which John Mayer has sunk.
It seems that John Mayer has compelled the world's most seductive and sexy woman, Jennifer Aniston, to spend her idle hours playing MASH and hoping she ends up in a mansion driving a Ferrari and named Jennifer Mayer. Well, I assume that's the kind of thing Jennifer Aniston occupies her spare time with, because she strikes me as the desperate type not above resorting to grade school means of sorting out the boys she likes. Why has an effeminate d-bag like John Mayer caused a sex goddess like Jennifer Aniston to wile away the hours playing John Mayer-themed MASH, you ask? Because he supposedly has a giant penis.
As a big hoed-out slutbag, I would like to interject at this point and offer my professional opinion. While I've never met John Mayer or seen his schlong myself, I have pretty solid dickdar, and most of the time I can tell roughly whether a dude is packing a cannon or a twig. I have NEVER had the slightest inkling that John Mayer is rocking a huge cock. In fact, if anything, he's a classic case of pencil dick, and if I'm wrong, I should have my official skank card confiscated. Have you ever heard that crappy "Your Body is a Wonderland" song? That was NOT written by a dude with an impressively large weiner.
I suppose one could argue that John Mayer's cocksure attitude and numerous celebrity girlfriends attest to the giant penis theory. However, I would counter by pointing out the fact that any tool can swagger around with an attitude and a famous piece of pussy on his arm when he has a large enough bank account and a few hit songs about his feelings. And frankly, Jennifer Aniston is not exactly a hot bitch so unattainable that a guy has to be hung like Lexington Steele to get with that. She seems like a whiny pain in the ass who likes to have a doting, effete wuss around, and hardly selective about the size of the dick she occasionally deigns to sit on.
And let's examine the above picture of John Mayer in comedy mode, thinking that he's hilariously funny because that was how everyone reacted when Sasha Baron Cohen's (totally fucking hot) ass rocked this get-up. Too bad that even on his best day, John Mayer can't even compare to one of Sasha Baron Cohen's ass pimples (and if you want to talk about guys who are rocking huge packages, I would argue that Borat is probably hung like a fucking blue whale). Sure, John Mayer has some crotch volume in that nutsling, but it isn't sufficient to warrant my being suspicious that he's got an elephant trunk tucked away under there. And trust that if I did, I'd probably be singing a different tune about John Mayer.
The rumors are NOT true. John Mayer is hung like the douchebag he is, and until he sends me pictures of his wang to refute this, that's my story and I'm dicking to it.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, small penises, weiners
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
LET THE KELLS TRIAL INNOCENCE-FEST BEGIN!
Thank you to CorporateCard and Morrissey'sHair for both being concerned enough with the legal fate of Robert Sylvester Kelly to advise me that his trial was off to a rollicking legal start yesterday. Also, thanks to Morrissey'sHair for pointing out how impeccably dressed Kells was (per usual) and for noting, "Can't fade a playa." True that.
Anyway, back to day 1 of the People vs. Robert Sylvester Kelly. The prosecutor came right out of the gate with opening arguments delivered in a self-righteous, "Law and Order: SVU" sort of way. Engaging in blowjobs and watersports with a 13-year-old is reprehensible when you're a R&B thug, or any adult for that matter, taping it is worse, and R. Kelly supposedly did all that.
The defense, however, is relying on what they can prove and, more importantly, what the prosecution cannot: the fact that there's a high probability of the guy on the tape not being R. Kelly. You never see the guy's face, and the girl in the video remains unidentified. The alleged victim denied that she was in the video under oath before a grand jury, the tape was sent to a newspaper from an anonymous tipster rather than recovered from the R-uh in R&B's suburban Chicago mansion, R. Kelly has a brother who looks an awful lot like him, the tape is a fifth or sixth generation copy, and even the FBI couldn't identify the man on the tape. It seems to me that if you can't prove that the girl in the video is underage, much less whether the man pissing on her is in fact Robert S. Kelly from the Chi, then there is no case.
I saw the sex tape on the internets (unless, of course, that sex tape is deemed "child porn", in which case I don't know what you're talking about, and I plead the Fifth or whatever). You really can't tell who the man is, unless of course you think all black people look the same. In that case, the guy in the video shares Kells' skin color, so R. Kelly is guilty before he even makes the case for his innocence. However, assuming that the jury is not unabashedly racist, they'll see quite clearly that you can't tell if R. Kelly is the man in the video. Frankly, "black" is the only attribute R. Kelly and the guy in the video share, being that the video guy pissing on the alleged minor never demonstrates whether or not he is "handsome, sings, plus is rich" and is "a flirt," also critical points for positively identifying Kells. I should add that the guy in the video never demonstrates his skills as a "R&B thug" at any time (such as by causing the alleged victim to leave up out the room walking bowlegged, keeping her body coming like the CTA, or making the room go black upon exposure of his "love jones"), and the alleged victim never once says "oooh, Kelly, you make me holler, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" at any point during the scene either.
The great thing about this trial is that the defense is pointing out facts I didn't even know, and I know a LOT about R. Kelly since I'm pathologically obsessed with him. For example, I had no idea that Kells's dermatologic traits could provide the key to his acquittal, per CNN coverage of the case:
I saw the sex tape on the internets (unless, of course, that sex tape is deemed "child porn", in which case I don't know what you're talking about, and I plead the Fifth or whatever). You really can't tell who the man is, unless of course you think all black people look the same. In that case, the guy in the video shares Kells' skin color, so R. Kelly is guilty before he even makes the case for his innocence. However, assuming that the jury is not unabashedly racist, they'll see quite clearly that you can't tell if R. Kelly is the man in the video. Frankly, "black" is the only attribute R. Kelly and the guy in the video share, being that the video guy pissing on the alleged minor never demonstrates whether or not he is "handsome, sings, plus is rich" and is "a flirt," also critical points for positively identifying Kells. I should add that the guy in the video never demonstrates his skills as a "R&B thug" at any time (such as by causing the alleged victim to leave up out the room walking bowlegged, keeping her body coming like the CTA, or making the room go black upon exposure of his "love jones"), and the alleged victim never once says "oooh, Kelly, you make me holler, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" at any point during the scene either.
The great thing about this trial is that the defense is pointing out facts I didn't even know, and I know a LOT about R. Kelly since I'm pathologically obsessed with him. For example, I had no idea that Kells's dermatologic traits could provide the key to his acquittal, per CNN coverage of the case:
The defense asserts that Kelly has a "significant" mole in the middle of his lower back that has been there since childhood. But he said the man on the tape did not have the mole.
"There is no mole on his back," Adam (defense attorney) said. "Robert isn't that man on the tape."
Sounds good to me. Not only does this sound like Kells's back mole is the blemish of innocence, but it also makes a great excuse for R. Kelly to get topless in the courtroom. In other words, it's a total win-win for Kells supporters. NOT GUILTY!
Labels: armchair barristry, CorporateCard, crime and punishment, legal drama, Morrissey'sHair, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Okay, that's it, my head is going to explode
Knowing my affinity for a certain 90s prime-time soap opera about the greatest 5-digit number in the history of zip codes, a lot of people have asked me, "Have you heard they're coming out with a new spinoff of 'Beverly Hills, 90210'?"
Um...DUH! Yes, of course I heard! I've been e-mailing my fellow Niner-addicted acquaintances concerning this show about every last little casting detail since I first heard the news. I mean, come on. I didn't get to be #60 out of some 48,000 in the trivia section of the Facebook Bev Niner application by ignoring breaking Bev Niner-related entertainment news. I simply haven't commented because I've been on an emotional roller coaster about it. Initially, I didn't believe that it would ever be anything besides a rumor. Then, I figured that it would be an embarrassing stain tarnishing the original's sublime perfection. Then, I heard that the chick who played that slut Eden on "Nip/Tuck" was cast as the new Kelly Taylor, and I thought, "Well, okay, this isn't all bad." Then there was one totally awesome casting choice after the next: Aunt Becky from "Full House" as the considerably MILFier new Cindy Walsh, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" as some sort of Joan Collins-esque matriarch (who hopefully hangs out drinking and doing blow with Jackie Taylor), some guy from "The Wire" who I haven't heard of but everyone tells me is awesome as the black Brandon Walsh, some girl from another reputedly awesome trashy teen show "Degrassi: The Next Generation" as the new Brenda, Kyle McBride from "Melrose Place" as a hot new Jim Walsh, and Jennie Garth and Tori Spelling reprising their original Kelly Taylor and Donna Silver nee Martin roles. Apparently, after a varied career as a reputed slut, free clinic administrator, boutique owner, PR executive, and wannabe social worker, Kelly Taylor decided to settle down as a guidance counselor at West Beverly. Nobody is quite clear what Donna is up to, but I would assume she's still trying to corner the market for home-sewn track-working hooker outfits at Now Wear This. After hearing all this, I decided that the new "90210" is an absolute must-watch. If the CW puts that on right after "Gossip Girl," let's just say that I'll be easy to find on Monday nights. I mean, "Gossip Girl" at 8, "90210 (2.0)" at 9, and "The Hills" at 10?! That's a trifecta of trashtastic TV teen awesomeness. It's a really good thing that Monday Night Football matchups usually suck (and the Seahawks don't even have a Monday night game next season), because I'm already anticipating a major conflict in terms of my Monday television habits.
Well, the CW has released a sneak preview of the show, including the retooled theme song (which I'm not sure I like so much) and interviews with the cast. I say props to the producers for retaining one of the most treasured scenes from the show intro: the moment where Brandon fake-punches Dylan in time with the "tsch-tsch" sounds in the theme song. Except in the new Niner intro, it's a more modern, slightly less latently homoerotic knuckle pounding. Daps, bra!
Anyway, here's the sneak preview. It looks awesome! "Cooler, sexier, and more provocative," according to the promo voiceover. But DOES it have awesome dialogue on par with "she's got the body of a centerfold and the personality of a volcano" and "so...I hear you're into videotape"?
I like how the new male Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman has turned the West Beverly Blaze from one long, pathetic high school wannabe version of a Bob Woodward investigative report into "something like 'Access Hollywood.'" I also like the fact that the "Silver" character's name seems to suggest that she is possibly the spawn of a certain David and Donna Silver...which means that there could be some guest appearances by her very hot grandfather, Dr. Mel Silver, DDS! YES! In other progeny of original Niner cast members news, last night on E! I saw Luke Perry making cryptic references to Dylan McKay "fathering children all over the world" (except in Beverly Hills, where his one pregnancy scare just turned out to be Brenda's cycle acting wonky). I interpreted these statements to mean that in addition to Donna-David spawn, one of Dylan McKay's international bastards might make an appearance on the new show. If Jack McKay and/or Special Agent Christine Pettit show up to reprise their roles, I might just be able to go ahead and die knowing I've had at least one moment of sheer joyous contentment.
I like how the new male Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman has turned the West Beverly Blaze from one long, pathetic high school wannabe version of a Bob Woodward investigative report into "something like 'Access Hollywood.'" I also like the fact that the "Silver" character's name seems to suggest that she is possibly the spawn of a certain David and Donna Silver...which means that there could be some guest appearances by her very hot grandfather, Dr. Mel Silver, DDS! YES! In other progeny of original Niner cast members news, last night on E! I saw Luke Perry making cryptic references to Dylan McKay "fathering children all over the world" (except in Beverly Hills, where his one pregnancy scare just turned out to be Brenda's cycle acting wonky). I interpreted these statements to mean that in addition to Donna-David spawn, one of Dylan McKay's international bastards might make an appearance on the new show. If Jack McKay and/or Special Agent Christine Pettit show up to reprise their roles, I might just be able to go ahead and die knowing I've had at least one moment of sheer joyous contentment.
This is just too much for me. I am so deliriously excited for the second coming of Bev Niner that I don't even know how I am going to wait for fall. It better not fucking suck.
Labels: Bev Niner, hot chicks, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, TV
Daily Douchebag: California AB 2914
DOB: February 22, 2008
Occupation: levying a 25% tax on gross revenues from the sale of pornographic books, magazines, films, videos, etc.
Hometown: Sacramento, California
Current residence: Sacramento, California
Douchebaggery: Man, today is certainly the Morrissey'sHair edition of my website. He blew me up on chat about the start of Kells's trial, suggested Jon Lester for Daily Dude, and this for Daily Douchebag:
Morrissey'sHair: BTW, DD idea for tomorrow
Morrissey'sHair: The State of California
Razzy: daily douchebag or dude?
Morrissey'sHair: Douchebag
Razzy: dude=go gay marriage
Razzy: douchebag=25% porn tax
Morrissey'sHair: YES
Morrissey'sHair: Porn tax
Razzy: yes, that is what last week's dude kayden kross was so upset about!
Morrissey'sHair: the Terminator better shoot that one down if it comes across his desk
Razzy: TRULY
Morrissey'sHair: It was on CNN today
Morrissey'sHair: Looks ready for passage
Razzy: the worst part about that tax
Razzy: is it can be assessed at multiple stages of the porn production and distribution process
Razzy: so it actually becomes a 125% tax
Razzy: thus effectively ending porn production in california
Razzy: which is where the majority of US porn is produced
Morrissey'sHair: That means my Buy 2 @ $29.99 per piece dvds, get one free will now be in the $80.00 range!
Morrissey'sHair: Unamerican
Razzy: TRULY
Razzy: at least redtube is still free
Morrissey'sHair: Look out Seattle
Morrissey'sHair: There's a ton of snotty girls around here who could use a few extra hundred bucks for a facial
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: seriously
Morrissey'sHair: Maybe Vince Voyeur will set up an office here
You might be thinking, so fucking what? I don't live in California! I don't have any California state tax liability. WRONG, fool! If you buy and watch porn, you're going to pay this tax (and if you don't, then you're a lame prude who's missing out). The vast majority of porn in the U.S. is produced in the San Fernando valley. As Morrissey'sHair astutely pointed out, the cost of his buy 2, get 1 free DVDs at the Westlake Castle Superstore in Seattle will skyrocket, because due to the way porn is produced, distributed, and marketed, this tax could be assessed as many as 4 or 5 times on any given product (although Calderon insists that it will be capped at a whopping 50%), and ultimately that means the consumer will have to pick up the tab.
Sure, the porn industry could just move to another state. However, they may not have another state to move to, since California has a unique legal environment suitable for porn production. In 1982, the California State Supreme Court ruled in California vs. Freeman that the production of adult films did not constitute pandering, and is thus legal. No other state has similar legal precedent legitimizing the adult industry, which is why 90% of domestic porn is produced in the San Fernando Valley. It's also why people like Assemblyman Calderon have to resort to obscene taxes that don't even make financial sense (this will bring in $665 million in tax revenues, but will cost California $3.5 billion in lost jobs and industry revenues) to fight porn, since it's legal and qualifies as protected free speech. I should add that bills like AB 2914 are exactly why I'm a libertarian; I don't think the government has any business depriving me of my constitutional rights with absurd tax laws. Fuck that. No taxation of masturbation!
Luckily for Morrissey'sHair and myself and every other red-blooded American who likes to rub one off to a good, old-fashioned, Made-in-the-US-of-A hardcore porn film, it seems that this bill is actually not set to cross the Governator's desk anytime soon. According to porn industry reporters, the bill was sent to the "suspense file" of the Assembly Committee on Revenue and Taxation, meaning that it's not even going to be voted on. If it is voted on, it's unlikely to get the 2/3 majority required to pass tax hike legislation in California. Thank God for tax-hating Republicans who pledged not to vote for this or any other tax increases, and thank God for a non-fundamentalist Christian tax-hating Republican governor who will veto/terminate that shit on the off chance it does make it through the legislature.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, masturbation, Morrissey'sHair, politics, porn
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jon Lester
DOB: January 7, 1984
Occupation: pitcher for the Boston Red Sox
Hometown: Puyallup, Washington AKA MY HOMETOWN
Current residence: Boston, Assachusetts
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Much as I'm loath to give "Daily Dude" status to any jackass in a Red Sox uniform, I can't sit idly by and not give a shout-out to Jon Lester, current baseball pride of the P-N-Dub. Like me, he was born and raised in beautiful Puyallup, Washington, and also like me, he went to Bellarmine Preparatory School in Tacoma, Washington (LION PRIDE, BABY!). In 2006, he beat lymphoma, in 2007 he pitched the final (winning) game of the World Series, and just this Monday, he pitched a no-hitter against the Royals. He's the first left-handed Red Sox pitcher to do so since 1956, and the 18th pitcher in team history to do so.
Being in such limited company in Red Sox record books is certainly impressive. The Red Sox may as well be a damn geologic formation, their history is so epic. Back when I was dating Benzo, all I ever heard about was bitching and moaning about how somehow the Red Sox got screwed out of this or that X times since 1901 or whenever. In fact, three years of sleeping with a diehard Red Sox-loving native Masshole resulted in my absolutely HATING them. On the rare occasions that Benzo and I fought, it usually had something to do with the Red Sox. The only time he ever hung up on me was when I said "How about those Indians?" after Cleveland knocked the Sox out of the American League divisional playoffs in 1998. Another time that we went to see the Mariners play the Sox at Fenway, he was a bitchy grouch the entire ride back to Northampton after the game because the Mariners had the audacity to win. As far as I'm concerned, the Red Sox are harbingers of NO SEX, and there's nothing hot about that.
However, since Jon Lester is blessing Red Sox Nation with his Puyallup-bred and Bellarmine-honed pitching style, I have to begrudgingly admit that there's at least one stud worthy of my approval in a Boston uniform. It could be a lot worse; he could play for the Yankees, in which case, he'd be beyond redemption. At least this way, those of us born doing the Puyallup can finally have some self-respect and brag about a professional athlete whose name doesn't end in "Huard." Okay, fine, nobody was bragging about them anyway. Except when I wear my dad's old Brock Huard Seahawks jersey to bed, but since I only do that when nobody is around to see, that hardly counts as "bragging."
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Do the Puyallup, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Homo Fide
In used-to-be late-breaking news, California announced that the bill to ban same-sex union has been rejected, allowing homosexuals throughout the Golden State to walk down the aisle with legal sanction. In 30ish days time, the law will be signed into effect.
Meanwhile, homos from North to South have already begun to plan they nuptials.
While controversy will certainly arise in the days and months to come, divided parties will agree on one certainty: this decision offers a great deal of hope for the struggling economy in the creation of several new, essential jobs.
Ye seekers of employment, hone your skills and head into any of these 'bout-to-burgeon professions:
FINERY - Tuxedo rentals will see a spike, so for the retail- and customer service-savvy, high thee to the formal wear vendor nearest you. Plus- and petite-sizes a perfect must.
CATERING - Homosexual appeptites will undoubtedly run up, and spikes in the creation, cooking and service of food and beverage is to be expected. Think hummus and tuna tartare, champers and Kentucky rye. The rest will fall into place.
BOUNCERS - The lines at the Unitarian Church will inevitably stretch from White Castle to the Nile - or at least Baja to Berkeley. The services of steady butchesque types the state over will be in high demand, to keep the... peace.
DOGS - Got something [anything] to do with dogs? Prepare ye the coming of boom. Grooming, sitting, schooling, vending, outfitting, walking - you name it. There will be many an abandoned or undisciplined canine, be it left behind on a honeymoon or slated to be a ring bearer.
UHAULs - No joke needed.
RAV4 / SCION STRETCH LIMO RENTALS - Joke needed. But the fact remains that many members of the wedding Parties will need a seat in a practical vehicle. Preferably... boxy.
DIVORCE LAWYERS - Gays will finally be able to take advantage of their God-given rights as Americans to both marry and separate formally . So get with the picture and sharpen your knowledge of marital law. Social services will always be there as a back-up when the, er, dam breaks.
Expect a steady hold in lace, a hold in contraception, a spike in latex and a potential turn in the California housing market. Wills/testaments may also see an increase, but plan carefully.
And so. The skeptical, curious and optimistic eyes of the nation turn west anew to await the new chapter in our nation's social history. The clever among us will seize the day to serve this new wave of change in the most advantageous way, with Amer'can ingenuity, pluck, and other-cheekness. Till death do us.
Meanwhile, homos from North to South have already begun to plan they nuptials.
While controversy will certainly arise in the days and months to come, divided parties will agree on one certainty: this decision offers a great deal of hope for the struggling economy in the creation of several new, essential jobs.
Ye seekers of employment, hone your skills and head into any of these 'bout-to-burgeon professions:
FINERY - Tuxedo rentals will see a spike, so for the retail- and customer service-savvy, high thee to the formal wear vendor nearest you. Plus- and petite-sizes a perfect must.
CATERING - Homosexual appeptites will undoubtedly run up, and spikes in the creation, cooking and service of food and beverage is to be expected. Think hummus and tuna tartare, champers and Kentucky rye. The rest will fall into place.
BOUNCERS - The lines at the Unitarian Church will inevitably stretch from White Castle to the Nile - or at least Baja to Berkeley. The services of steady butchesque types the state over will be in high demand, to keep the... peace.
DOGS - Got something [anything] to do with dogs? Prepare ye the coming of boom. Grooming, sitting, schooling, vending, outfitting, walking - you name it. There will be many an abandoned or undisciplined canine, be it left behind on a honeymoon or slated to be a ring bearer.
UHAULs - No joke needed.
RAV4 / SCION STRETCH LIMO RENTALS - Joke needed. But the fact remains that many members of the wedding Parties will need a seat in a practical vehicle. Preferably... boxy.
DIVORCE LAWYERS - Gays will finally be able to take advantage of their God-given rights as Americans to both marry and separate formally . So get with the picture and sharpen your knowledge of marital law. Social services will always be there as a back-up when the, er, dam breaks.
Expect a steady hold in lace, a hold in contraception, a spike in latex and a potential turn in the California housing market. Wills/testaments may also see an increase, but plan carefully.
And so. The skeptical, curious and optimistic eyes of the nation turn west anew to await the new chapter in our nation's social history. The clever among us will seize the day to serve this new wave of change in the most advantageous way, with Amer'can ingenuity, pluck, and other-cheekness. Till death do us.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony, lezbollah, vulgar display of faggotry
Butt NO!
After a vigorous session discussing a whole bunch of extraneous and irrelevant shit with my shrink, I had to go immediately to an appointment with a different type of doctor. Regular readers may recall a couple months back when I mentioned that my back door required a little bit of work on account of a supposed hemorrh--I mean, THINGY I had there. Well, it took some time to get into the colorectal surgeon's office because the female butt doctor wasn't taking new patients and the guy was on a long trip around Israel. However, the wait was over yesterday when I strolled into Dr. Feingold's butt doctor office ready for whatever unholy type of ass medicine he administers. After filling out a thousand forms, including a consent for emergency ass surgery if I'm unconscious at the butt doctor's office and I have some kind of emergency.
"Hopefully I won't need the emergency surgery part," I said to the receptionist as I handed back the copious stack of forms I'd just completed.
"You never know, you might get lucky," she said, winking. Ha ha, very funny. Nothing like a little gallows humor from the receptionist at the colorectal surgeon's.
Shortly after, I was ushered into an exam room, where a nurse came in to interrogate me about my asshole.
"Anyone in your family ever get colon cancer?" she asked.
"My grandmother, but she was like 92," I said.
"Hmmm, that's still a family history. The doctor might recommend that you start your screenings early," said the nurse cheerfully.
Great. Buy one colorectal surgeon office visit, get a free colonoscopy before I turn 50. Goddamn troublesome asshole!
"Okay, the doctor will be in shortly to check you out," the nurse said after a lengthy discussion about what the thingy on my asshole looks like and my and my primary care physician's theories on what it might be, a skin tag or--ahem--a hemorrhoid. "Take off everything below the waist, put the gown on open at the back, and drape the sheet over yourself. We try to make you as comfortable as possible." That's a relief, I thought. And at least I didn't have to take my shirt off and explain to the doctor why I have "FREE KELLS" written backwards across my tits.
The doctor came in and I saw, much to my chagrin, that he was a young, nerdy, bespectacled Jewish dude with just enough gray in his beard to seem distinguished. In other words, he was incredibly sexy and I totally wanted to jump his bones, not have him start poking around my nether regions analytically. I especially didn't want to test my flirting skills while he was closely examining abnormal anal growths. Talk about embarrassing!
"Hi, how are you? I'm Dr. Feingold. I hear you've got a rectal skin tag," he said jovially.
"Uhh, yeah, I guess. I mean, it doesn't hurt or anything, it's just there." Even though I know in my head that the doctor is a professional, and he probably sees assholes all day given his specialty, I felt the need to apologize for having one that was acting up and necessitating this humiliating medical experience.
"Well, let's take a look. If you could, lay back and roll onto your side away from me. Just get comfortable."
I did as I was told, except for the getting comfortable part. That was NOT going to happen.
"I see what you're talking about here," he said. "Is this it?" He poked at the offending thingy. "It's very small."
"Yes, that's it."
"Okay, now very briefly, you're going to feel a cold finger," he said. And with that, he stuck his lube-covered finger in my ass. It is the first time I can recall that any man has put any part of his body into my ass outside of a sexual context, and that was weird. I thought, "Wow, this can't be over fast enough." Too bad the worst was yet to come.
"Okay, now very briefly, you're going to feel a small instrument," he said. Then he stuck some kind of telescope/flashlight thing up my butt and started looking into it. The whole thing was like getting a Pap smear in my ass, and I was not enjoying it. At least it wasn't painful.
"Alright, we're done, you can go ahead and sit back up," he said.
"Well, that wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be," I ventured. The doctor was exactly the kind of nerd I think is the hottest, and I wanted to try and save face a little bit.
"Tell your friends," joked Dr. Feingold. "Okay, so here's what's going on. This is just a skin tag, not a hemorrhoid. It appears benign, and it's not a wart or anything resulting from an infection. It's totally harmless, and I would recommend leaving it alone. However, if you prefer, I can remove it in just a minute or two here in the office today. It's certainly small enough that it won't even require a stitch to heal."
I thought about every close-up of a chick's downstairs plumbing I've ever seen in any given porn, and decided that for aesthetic reasons, the skin tag had to go. At the very least, I can't have some lucky honey getting a close-up view of my ass and thinking I have a tumor or, worse, some kind of papilloma action going on back there. Besides, excepting the doctors I am sometimes inclined to bang, most of my sex partners aren't professionally able to distinguish a harmless, benign, non-transmissible skin tag from an infectious, alarming, scary anal wart, and I don't want any confusion that could possibly damage my reputation as what Lil' Kim calls a "disease-free bitch."
"Okay, no problem. I'll be back in one moment," said Dr. Feingold. He returned shortly after with another nurse, a specimen jar, and a 10 mL syringe full of anesthetic.
"Are you seriously going to pump 10 mL of lidocaine into my asshole?" I blurted out.
"It looks like a lot more volume than it really is," he replied, chuckling. "Although it is painful for just a moment after I inject the anesthetic, it should become completely numb very quickly. Okay, roll over onto your belly and take a deep breath. This will be really fast, I promise."
I swear he really did pump 10 mL of lidocaine into my ass. It took FOREVER. I tried to concentrate on taking deep breaths. Then Dr. Feingold advised me he was snipping, and then it was over. The doctor placed a huge wad of gauze over the area and told the nurse to hang around holding it there for 10 minutes or until the bleeding stopped. Then he told me to make an appointment to follow-up with my healing and to get the official pathology results confirming that it was indeed a skin tag. Then he took off, and it was just me and the nurse with her hand on my asshole.
"I bet this is your favorite part of the job," I said, making a pathetic attempt at humor.
"This is a regular part of my job," she said. "It's not a big deal for me, we're professionals here."
"Of course," I said. "I didn't mean to imply you weren't. I'm just not really used to having someone press on my ass in a professional setting."
The nurse eyed me shrewdly. "Few people are used to having someone press on their rectum at all," she said.
"Yes, well..." I said. Granted, I'm not by any means a giant fan of BS and nobody would ever call me an anal queen, but I'd be lying if I said this was the first time my rectum had been firmly pressed.
Anyway, I couldn't get out of there fast enough, I had to have a giant wad of gauze stuffed up my asscrack all day long, and I'm praying that when I return for my follow-up, sexy Dr. Feingold doesn't suggest that I start getting colonoscopies or other invasive ass checkups, at least not for a few years. Like 20. Or more. I have to say, the butt doctor IS as bad as advertised.
Labels: assholes, BS, gross, oh the horror, science
Owning the internets game one misspelled Google search at a time
According to my internets statistics, a popular means of potential Razzyphiles discovering my awesomeness is a direct consequence of their making inquiries at Google concerning websites addressing the topic of "hottest chicks in america toppless." GUESS WHO IS #8 ON THAT GOOGLE SEARCH RESULT, BITCHES!
Obviously, it's only a matter of time before I'm discovered, gratuitously given enough money and negotiating power to buy the Seahawks from Paul Allen, do that, win a Super Bowl, get elected president, and commence totally ruling the world's face off. My diabolically ambitious plan is clearly working (said plot being to somehow attain fame and fortune via Google directing the spelling-challenged--or perhaps the baseball card-collecting, since I guess "toppless" could mean lacking in Topps baseball cards--breast-worshiping perverts of the internets to a post I wrote two years ago with a broken link to a now non-existent video of my drunk ass running around my bitches' photography studio acting the fool. This is the key to my future success. Domination of Google search parameters such as "hottest chicks in america toppless" today, and the world tomorrow. SERIOUSLY! One day when I'm running for president, you'll think, "Gee, remember the good old days when we discovered Razzy doing Google searches for 'hottest chicks in america toppless'? Those days were awesome. Vote fucking Razzy."
Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: TAFKAMA
DOB: May 19, 1978
Occupation: computer badass at Amazon.com
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm a total creep and a bad friend because I forgot that yesterday was TAFKAMA's big 3-0. Okay, I didn't forget so much as I rely on my online social networks to remind me when people's birthdays are, I hardly ever go on MySpace anymore, and I sometimes neglect Facebook too, so I didn't know until he reminded me.
TAFKAMA: chat is gayOf course TAFKAMA is spending his birthday hating. TAFKAMA is always grouchy, even when he's having fun. Hell, he's grouchy even when he's having sex! (I know because we did it a few times when we were drunk, although in fairness TAFKAMA and I had an unspoken agreement to keep it pretty vanilla, because above all else we're old buddies and getting too freaky might make things weird, so maybe I mistook his attempts at keeping it casual for crabbiness). He's probably also hating because he's always breaking his ribs when he goes snowboarding, and that makes it hard to breathe, laugh, or eat without pain. When I went out for lunch with him the last time I was in the P-N-Dub, he looked positively miserable and had enough Vicodin on hand to trank an African elephant.
Razzy: no it's not!
Razzy: it's a great way to waste time
TAFKAMA: it is my b-day
TAFKAMA: 30
Razzy: omg, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Razzy: what are you doing to celebrate???
TAFKAMA: hating
In the hopes that I might be able to get TAFKAMA to crack one of his little begrudging smiles as a belated birthday present, I'm just going to reflect on some of the highlights of our friendship over the years. I met TAFKAMA my freshman year of high school, so we've known each other for almost 20 years. Even more apropos is that TAFKAMA's mom and my mom were friends in high school. They double dated to prom or something like that. Anyway, some of my favorite TAFKAMA moments are as follows:
- We drove through the streets of north Tacoma sometime in 1994 with a flaming copy of The Blue Hawk, this pulp sci-fi novel our sophomore honors world history teacher, Brother Paul, had assigned us as part of his long list of $0.10 paperbacks having something to do with technology and its impact on civilization. As TAFKAMA drove his beat-up old Dodge truck, AKA "Zog" around with burning pages flying off in our wake, he was sucking on a Djarum clove cigarette and saying, "Burning books is against everything I'm about, Razzy...BUT IT'S AWESOME!"
- Also sometime in 1994, while studying for some test, TAFKAMA wrote "Angie Sucks" on one of my Adidas Superstars in bright orange marker (I don't know why he had to fuck up my good shoes when there was a perfectly good pair of ugly lesbotic Birkenstock clogs hanging around). When I finally threw those shoes away with a heavy heart last year, the one TAFKAMA defaced still had a huge orange stain on it.
- TAFKAMA mastered the internets early, and via Prodigy managed to find pictures of some woman performing fellatio on a Clydesdale at some usenet group called "horselove.alt" or something like that. At one impromptu party at his house, I remember witnessing this picture with around 20 other horrified teenagers.
- In high school, TAFKAMA was the only boy who joined my feminist club "the Society for Women's Advancement" (DON'T LAUGH! Okay, you can laugh). So what if he only joined to get access to my signs so he could draw devil pictures on them and otherwise deface them with irreverent anti-feminist graffiti; at least he joined and went to at least one meeting (which I'm sure we spent sitting outside Cafe Wa smoking cloves rather than discussing new strategies for "women's advancement").
- TAFKAMA loved his piece of shit truck Zog so much that last year he bought an identical piece of truck off Craigslist and is currently "fixing it up," which I assume means making it marginally roadworthy.
- The first time TAFKAMA and I had sex, we were at my house in Tacoma sometime around 2002 or so, and we had just gotten home after a night of whiskey drinking on the town. How did TAFKAMA seal the deal, you ask? "Hey Razzy, let's make out," he said. When I asked why and suggested that our friendship was such that it might be weird, he said, "So? Making out is fun. Just shut up and make out. We'll just say we were drunk if it's weird." I couldn't argue with that logic, so I just went one step further and fucked him.
- TAFKAMA's hobby is making jam. One time he gave me a jar to give my parents. Now, every time I hang out with TAFKAMA, my dad asks where his jam is.
- One time TAFKAMA beat a guy up to defend my honor. Okay, not so much "my" honor as "his sister's" honor, since his sister and I both slept with the same cheating d-bag. Oh, okay, and TAFKAMA didn't even beat him up about our honor as much as because this guy was overall just a total d-bag for many reasons and TAFKAMA finally got fed up with it. But he kicked his ass nonetheless.
- TAFKAMA taught me about the useful little piece of html called target="_blank". This opens links in new windows. I realize this is like the html equivalent of 1+1=2, but I'm a computer moron, and I appreciate TAFKAMA's assistance nonetheless.
- TAFKAMA drinks bourbon and scores mad Seattle pussy. Wait, I'm not sure that latter attribute is something to be so proud of, because Seattle is full of dumb, annoying skanks. But still.
- TAFKAMA is just awesome and I'm so glad we're still friends after all these years. I hope that the birthday fairy left some hot, sort-of hippie-looking snowboarder chick with an encyclopedic knowledge of Philip K. Dick (or whatever...I know you're an even bigger nerd than me, TAFKAMA) novels on his doorstep to welcome the third decade of his life with a bang.
Hopefully TAFKAMA can stop hating for a few minutes to appreciate the fact that he rules. Ideally he appreciated that, then drained a few Vitamin R's (Rainier Beer, elixir of the P-N-Dub), and scored some hot chick. Happy birthday, TAFKAMA!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, P-N-Dub, Razzification, TAFKAMA
Daily Douchebag: shrinks
DOB: ???--the 1950s, probably
Occupation: getting off the fucking topic at hand
Hometown: ???--they never tell you anything personal
Current residence: for me, New York, New York or thereabouts
Douchebaggery: I'm not one who gets embarrassed about going to therapy. Sometimes I just need some professional assistance working out the kinks in my life, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. Right now for me, I've realized that I really, REALLY need to quit smoking. I know that I've quit so many times it's a running joke for everyone else, but this time it really absolutely has to happen. With my asthma making a comeback with a vengeance, I now have the option of either smoking or breathing. I no longer have the luxury of quitting smoke for health reasons that aren't immediately apparent. I'm at the crossroads of either recovery or COPD, and I'm choosing recovery. However, because I've tried and failed so many times to quit smoking, I decided to get some help this time around, so I'm seeing a shrink. Besides, I have other unresolved issues (ie: abortion) that stress me out and exacerbate the smoking situation, so it can't hurt to iron out those wrinkles in my life either.
I wanted to see a shrink who would put me on Wellbutrin XL, AKA Zyban when it's sold as an aid for smoking cessation, to assist me with the lengthy process of washing cigarettes the fuck out of my life. Columbia set me up with some guy who is supposedly good with "addiction issues" and who could help me. Our first session went pretty well, except for the fact that he seemed to think my being bisexual played a large role in my lifelong smoking habit. I disagreed, and said that my smoking "habit"--or, more accurately, debilitating addiction--was the result of my childhood stupidity and subsequent severe dependency on cigarettes. My resolve to quit is tested by stressful situations, and my coping with those constructively is further damaged by festering drama from my past such as the aforementioned trip to the family planning clinic. One thing that doesn't seem to affect my smoking is my sex life, and whether I'm doing dudes and/or chicks. I'm at the shrink for two things: Wellbutrin and stress management. I'm NOT here to take other aspects of my life that I'm just fine and dandy with and turn them into major fucking problems, which is what happened at our second and last session.
Yesterday, my shrink advised me that he was leaving Columbia, and sorry to bounce after my second visit, but he'll hook me up with another doctor who will help. While he tried to evaluate what kind of shrink would be best for that, I was surprised by some of the lines of questioning he pursued. Apparently, certain aspects of my personality--which he referred to as a "syndrome," like my personality is AIDS or something--are problems I didn't even know I had. For example, I was unaware that I'm secretly TRANSGENDERED because I drink scotch, like football, and fuck around, and these are male traits. Also, my parents may have something to do with this. Not sure what, since my parents are loving and supportive and still married to each other, and neither of them hit or molested me growing up, but they are involved somehow in the gender identity crisis I didn't know I was having.
Needless to say, yesterday I didn't get a lot done in terms of keeping my shrink on point with regard to smoking and other traumatic events from my life that start with "A" and rhyme with "kabortion" yesterday. I complained to LL Cool Jew while we were talking about whether or not scotch makes me TOO crazy, and this precipitated a tirade from her:
LL Cool Jew: those JWBs go down way too easy for you!
Razzy: i KNOW
LL Cool Jew: maybe you should call a moratorium on the scotchers
Razzy: NEVER
LL Cool Jew: to bring yourself back to fighting levels
Razzy: although today my shrink called me transgendered on the basis of my scotch drinking
LL Cool Jew: transgendered?
Razzy: yes, i apparently like "male" things
LL Cool Jew: that's a stupid thing to say
Razzy: i was like, "NO WAY AM I CHANGING MY NAME TO MAX"
Razzy: "OR JULIAN"
Razzy: "OR ETHAN"
LL Cool Jew: cmon how about ezra?
Razzy:: i know, i thought it was dumb too
LL Cool Jew: but seriously
LL Cool Jew: that's a pretty wacktastic thing to say
Razzy: i was like, "dude, i'm totally comfortable in my body"
Razzy: well he's leaving columbia so this was our last sesh
Razzy: his conclusion: "i'm extremely complicated"
LL Cool Jew: it's not only obtuse, it's also disrespectful to be joking about a serious issue to you
Razzy: i don't think he was joking
LL Cool Jew: well then it's straight up fucktarded
Razzy: it's yet "another facet to your already extremely multifaceted complex personality"
LL Cool Jew: i call bullshit
Razzy: basically, i'm too confusing for him
LL Cool Jew: i'm glad that guy's gone
Razzy:: like i said, i'm getting a new shrink regardless
LL Cool Jew: you deserve somebody better than that
Razzy: i actually thought he was okay for the most part
Razzy: i don't think his expertise is sexuality issues
Razzy: he always seems out of his element when i'm talking about being bisexual
Razzy: he's like, "let's talk more about that"
LL Cool Jew: then he should keep his bright ideas to himself
Razzy: : i'm all, "dude, i'm totally fine with that. let's talk about MY SMOKING ADDICTION, that's why i'm here"
LL Cool Jew: these shrinks always think the queerness is a much bigger deal than in reality it is
Razzy: TRULY
Razzy: and i'm like hardly even queer!
LL Cool Jew: i always wanted to be like, look, i know this is a real trip for you because you're a boomer
LL Cool Jew: but for rizzle, i have never felt bad about being a lesbian
Razzy: i think he's trying to read too much into my "male" habits and the fact that i bang broads every so often
LL Cool Jew: and now i don't feel particularly bad about being straight
Razzy: i did long ago, in catholic school
Razzy: but now, FUCK THAT, i have no issues at all
Razzy: my issues are SMOKING and ABORTIONS!
LL Cool Jew: they always want to read more into it
Razzy: yeah today we had a 20 minute pointless convo about my parents' marriage
Razzy: i was like, "uh, back to the smoking, please"
LL Cool Jew: they think it's just got to be screwing with your emotions
LL Cool Jew: not really
LL Cool Jew: see, and there's another one
LL Cool Jew: if your parents are together, they want to talk about how they can identify weaknesses in their marriage in your personality flaws
Razzy: i'm like "KNOW WHAT'S REALLY SCREWING WITH ME...*SMOKING AND ABORTIONS*!
LL Cool Jew: if your parents arent together, they want to make "broken homes" into some big damn deal
Razzy:: exax
LL Cool Jew: it's not a mystery why i am unhappy
LL Cool Jew: i want to quit smoking
LL Cool Jew: if i quit smoking i bet i'd feel pretty hot about myself
LL Cool Jew: after i lost the 30 pounds i gained quitting of course
Razzy: then he was reading a lot into the fact that i don't care whether my new shrink that he's referring me to is male or female
LL Cool Jew: for god's sake
Razzy: i was like, no dude, i seriously don't care, as long as they can help me with the smoking
LL Cool Jew: this guy needs to get wuith the program
Razzy: i finally told him, "I'm bi-psychiatrist"
Razzy:"just like i'm bisexual"
Razzy: he thought that was funny
LL Cool Jew: you're like
LL Cool Jew: can they prescribe medication?
LL Cool Jew: then great.
Razzy: well exactly
Razzy: i was like the one thing i need
Razzy: is someone to keep the wellbutrin coming
LL Cool Jew: god
Razzy: AND WHO WANTS TO TALK ABOUT SMOKING AND ABORTIONS!
LL Cool Jew: you are so bringing me back dude.
LL Cool Jew: some of these shrinks just don't have a clue
Razzy: for real
LL Cool Jew: f'ing BOOMERS man
Razzy: i think my guy thought i was "very interesting"
LL Cool Jew:: they are hellbent on destroying us!
Razzy: because i'm "so extremely complex"
LL Cool Jew: well isn't everybody
Razzy:: bleeecccch
LL Cool Jew: isn't that the POINT
Razzy: i KNOW
Razzy: i was like, "glad i'm special but I NEED TO QUIT SMOKING!"
Razzy: i had to work hard to keep dr. stein on track
LL Cool Jew: wouldn't it be awesome if the shrink were just like
LL Cool Jew: wow you are a very straightforward individual with identified problems
LL Cool Jew: let's work on those
Razzy: TRULY
LL Cool Jew: see if anything else comes up
Razzy: i mean
Razzy: i mean, i'm giving my history
Razzy: colorfully, as is my habit
LL Cool Jew: if we're trying to hide something, that's one thing
LL Cool Jew: but YOU of all people don't try to hide ANYTHING.
Razzy: and the second i say, "i'm bisexual"
Razzy: he's like "when did you realize you were bisexual?"
Razzy: VOMIT
Razzy: i don't fucking know!
LL Cool Jew: stop the presses
Razzy: forever!
Razzy: i banged a chick first
Razzy: but then a dude immediately after
LL Cool Jew: let me waste your valuable 45 minutes talking about ancillary BS
Razzy: like WHO CARES
LL Cool Jew: they just don't want to hear that you're comfortable with it
LL Cool Jew: they WON'T believe it
LL Cool Jew: it's not possible in the boomer mind
Razzy: i KNOW
LL Cool Jew: because THEY still hate gays
Razzy: like, "in my time, people were so ostracized, shouldn't you be too?"
LL Cool Jew: OR, they really enjoy talking about their gay friends
LL Cool Jew: yes, "at my high school, we beat up tons of fags...how do YOU feel about ME?"
Razzy: ugh
LL Cool Jew: anyway
LL Cool Jew: glad that guy's moving on
Razzy: truly
Razzy: i hope his replacement is kewler
LL Cool Jew: you have to watch tehm
LL Cool Jew: tell them upfront
Razzy: totz, keep them on track
LL Cool Jew: they will waste your time otherwise
Razzy: truly
Razzy: i'm like, "back to the smoking"
Razzy: "back to the smoking"
LL Cool Jew: other things may come up as we address the reason you're there
LL Cool Jew: which is normal
LL Cool Jew: but you shouldn't be asked to take grandiose sidesteps from the issue at hand
LL Cool Jew: or worse yet
LL Cool Jew: CONVINCE them on teh points where you're already OKAY
Razzy: EXACTLY
LL Cool Jew: why do you have to convince them?
Razzy: like i definitely don't need to be told i'm having a gender identity crisis
Razzy: BECAUSE I'M NOT
LL Cool Jew: you're willing enough to share about your real problems
LL Cool Jew: who could possibly think that you were having a gender identity crisis?
LL Cool Jew: if you really wanted to be a dude
LL Cool Jew: i doubt you'd have LONG FLOWING CHERRY PIE BLONDE HAIR
Razzy: well truly
LL Cool Jew: or flash your tits all the time
Razzy: i know, i was like "i'm REALLY comfortable with my body"
LL Cool Jew: well maybe this next person will be respectful enough to take you seriously
LL Cool Jew: when you tell them you sincerely need help with certain things
Razzy: i hope so
LL Cool Jew: and not waste a bunch of your time getting bi sex stories to titillate and wow themselves
Razzy: TRULY
Razzy: well that's it
Razzy: i was like, "do i really need to go into detail about all the various methods and things by which i do it with girls?"
LL Cool Jew: no, not at all, it's completely irrelevant
Razzy: i mean, jesus
Razzy: not telling you about my strap-on, you perv
LL Cool Jew: that is so disgusting
LL Cool Jew: wasting your mental health HMO time getting his rocks off
Razzy: actually, though, i think my guy may have been confused about whether or not i actually f girls
Razzy: or just think making out with them and kissing is sex
LL Cool Jew: what difference does that make????????
Razzy: i assured him that my sex life with women is very below the belt
Razzy: BUT BACK TO SMOKING AND ABORTIONS
LL Cool Jew: this really pisses me off
LL Cool Jew: it's totz bringing me back to the dc shrink who tried to date me
Razzy: OH and then today
Razzy: he was all
Razzy: "so you've had sex with quite a few men"
LL Cool Jew:: ok
Razzy: when i was like "i f'd 62 dudes"
Razzy: i was like "right"
Razzy: dr. stein: "why do you think that is?"
Razzy: I DON'T KNOW, I LIKE TO FUCK!
LL Cool Jew: are you a sex addict as well as being a tranny boi now?
LL Cool Jew: pronounced tranny BWA in louisiana of course
Razzy: i must be
LL Cool Jew: i bet your male counterpart on his couch didn't get that question
LL Cool Jew: asshole
Razzy: SERIOUSLY
LL Cool Jew: angie, i am so livid about this, it's kind of ridic.
Razzy: well i'm done with dr. stein
LL Cool Jew: thank god
Razzy: so don't worry
LL Cool Jew: please don't hold him against my people.
Razzy: i'll date some other inadequate shrink
Razzy: dr. stein is recommending someone with expertise in treating addictions
Razzy: which is what i requested
LL Cool Jew: \m/
Razzy: exax
Razzy: so he did listen
Razzy: enough
LL Cool Jew: \m/ \m/
LL Cool Jew: sorry
LL Cool Jew: i love the devil hands
Razzy: after he told me i'm a F2M SLIZUT!
LL Cool Jew: well his opinion matters for shit
Razzy: well for real
Razzy: like i said
LL Cool Jew: i hate his gutses
Razzy: AIN'T NO WAY I'M CHOPPING OFF MY TITS AND ANSWERING TO "BOBBY"
So needless to say, I still need a shrink since I was so busy trying to explain to my old one that a few scotches don't necessarily equate to a F2M tranny, my slutty habits have nothing to do with smoking (except possibly that I smoke cigarettes for some of the same reasons I smoke pole--I'm orally fixated), and we didn't even really get to the abortion stuff. Hopefully my next one will be a little more on track. Goddamn shrinks.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gender bending, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, sex, sluts
Monday, May 19, 2008
Post-Tits
I just got a comment requesting that I pose topless more often with stuff written on my girls. Apparently, when I wrote shit about the New England Patriots on my sweater puppies in the past, this was well-received by certain readers who considered them "extremely hot." This reader went on to suggest that, as it's not football season and I can't fit "MATT WALSH SPEAKS THE TRUTH" or "BELICHICK DID SO TAPE THE RAMS' PREGAME WALKTHROUGH IN SUPER BOWL XXXVI", I should write something like "90210," "VOTE JOHN MCCAIN," or "FREE R. KELLY." Okay...Brooks and DONE.
It's no coincidence that I just finished posting about Robert Sylvester Kelly's prolific courtroom Post-It note production. While he's busy scrawling messages of his innocence on everyone's favorite neon-colored office supply, I'm busy shouting a similar message with my version of a Post-It. Some people say it with flowers, R. Kelly says it with Post-Its, and I say it with bare breasts. Actually, I'm not so much saying it with tits as shouting it from the fucking rooftops, because I put that shit on with extended wear lip color, which means that even with some verifiably painful loofah action I'm going to have "FREE KELLS" on my chest for the next three days. Oh well. It's worth it.
Labels: crime and punishment, nudity, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
And this week in R. Kelly trial news...
I wish I had more exciting news to report about the greatest case in the history of American justice: the People vs. the Pied Piper of R&B, better known as Robert Sylvester Kelly.
However, not much has gone on this past week except more jury selection. Apparently they've selected all 12 jurors and 2 alternates, so they only have 2 alternates to go. The good news about this is that once they get the last 2 jurors on board, they can get started with the business of proving R. Kelly not guilty so that he can tour for the TP Fourth Quarter album out this July, thus permitting LL Cool Jew and I to attend another Kells concert and have our minds blown by his mackadelic nightspot realness.
The jury selection has been remarkably uneventful. There was some chick dismissed for being as obviously pro-Kells as I would be (she declared Kells to be "a musical genius" under oath...NOT PERJURY!), and a bunch of other boring impartial jurors chosen instead. The biggest news was when one prospective juror said that "he's not very smart," a remark at which "Kelly looked up, a hurt expression on his face," according to the Chicago Sun-Times. Who does that bitch think she is? Does she not know that R. Kelly is the world's greatest? How can anyone reasonably say that the person who wrote lines like (for example, the song I'm listening to now, "TP-2") "taking off your Secrets with my teeth," "you can put it on me like drawers," and "I'm about to tear your shit out, new millenium style" is "not very smart?" I would argue that the author of such lyrics is VERY smart. R. Kelly is many things, including but not limited to a mountain, a tall tree, a swift wind moving over the country, so I think it goes without saying that he's "smart" in addition to being a giant, an eagle, and a lion down in the jungle. In fact, a common word like "smart" doesn't actually do R. Kelly's brilliance justice, and to suggest he's not even "smart" and hurt his feelings is inexcusable.
At least Kells managed to recover and return to what he has apparently been keeping busy with during most of the jury selection so far: writing copious Post-It notes and sticking them into his pockets. Undoubtedly those Post-It notes are filled with a combination of sure-fire winning legal strategies and real talk. I really like the idea of Kells instructing his attorneys by writing blurbs like "only thing I'm trying to extablish is not who's right and who's wrong, but what's right and what's wrong." Kells is probably also encouraging them to use the "Tommy did it" defense. If the lyrics to "I'm A Flirt (Remix)" are any indication, on at least one other occasion a guy named Tommy has been confused for R. Kelly. Yeah, that must be what's on Kells's Post-Its. I'm sure of it.
Labels: armchair barristry, crime and punishment, legal drama, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: housework
DOB: the beginning of human civilization...I assume ancient Sumer?
Occupation: the scourge of my existence
Hometown: not anywhere near where I'm from
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York
Douchebaggery: I've been awfully stressed out about my too-full schedule lately, so I've been smoking too many cigarettes. In fact, any cigarettes are too many, much less a pack a day of Parliament Lights. This smoking has resulted in terrible problems in the asthma department, and has necessitated my quitting immediately. Therefore it's been three smoke-free days and I'm doing remarkably well. It's amazing how much easier it is to quit when you have a choice between doing that and not breathing. Well, and when your shrink put you on Wellbutrin a week ago for this exact purpose. Anyway, in keeping with this "no smoking" thing, I decided that it was high time I cleaned my apartment and got rid of all my smoking crap. In fact, it was high time I cleaned my apartment anyway since the last time I really thoroughly cleaned it was...well, never.
One thing about me that never changes is that I absolutely SUCK at housework. As far as aptitude at domestic skills goes, I can cook a full seven-course dinner in a New York City studio apartment and I can fuck like a tiger, but when it comes to cleaning, I am retarded. While Meat Loaf would say that two out of three wife skills ain't bad, I would argue that my ineptitude at tidying up is a major shortcoming. I literally don't know how to clean. Probably because I never clean much, I don't know where to start. In order to really clean, I have to trick myself by rearranging the furniture and being confronted with the horror that lurks beneath it. I am not accomplished or efficient at doing this. Whenever some of my friends come over (especially Millertime, Miss Corbutt, and J-Sexy), they might get exasperated by my clutter and start picking some of it up themselves, and in five minutes they can do what would be at least an hour's worth of work for me. However, I am determined that my place will be free of empty Parliament packs and a generally less dusty, more asthma-friendly living space, and I resolved to really deeply clean my apartment if it took all fucking day.
Now, it's looking like it will take all fucking week, since I worked from 8 a.m. yesterday until 9:30 p.m. with breaks only for eating, pissing, or laundry folding and I'm still not done with everything. I did 8 loads of laundry, and dug a revolting 10 bags of garbage out from underneath my bed and couch. I literally probably found two cases worth of Heineken bottles under my bed, under my couch, and INSIDE my couch. In fact, my couch turned out to be capable of swallowing all sorts of things. I found in the couch an invitation to my friend M-Boner's wedding (which I attended in SUMMER 2006), 8-10 lighters, approximately 50 cigarette butts, a book KatieScarlett lent me, a pair of flip-flops I thought were lost forever, a giant bag of Ricola cough drops, a letter congratulating me on earning my second master's degree, and half a manicure set including clippers, a file, and two bottles of nail polish.
I didn't find any disgusting food messes, and this is because one thing I'm actually semi-competent at doing is cleaning up when there is vermin-attracting garbage involved, because my entire building is notorious for its roach and mouse infestation problem. However, I almost wish I left more food messes around. Judging by the amount of mouse shit I swept up yesterday, the lack of food garbage isn't deterring the mice from hanging out behind my couch and dresser and under my radiator. At least if I had food messes, I could just throw them away, bleach that shit down, scrub thoroughly, and be done. With all the paper mess that characterizes 90% of the content of my clutter in the form of unfiled bills, newspapers, magazines, notes I've taken, junk mail, etc., I have to sort through everything to see if it's a bank statement or just my bank trying to sell me life insurance. It takes FOREVER and it's SO BORING AND LAME, and I'm convinced that thanks to the mice, I've contracted hantavirus. I hate it so much.
The fact that I haven't really, really cleaned my apartment in the two and a half years since I moved in doesn't help speed this process up. I realize that this would be much easier if I did it a couple times a year at least, or if I was better about cleaning up after myself on a daily basis. I still have boxes of crap that I haven't unpacked since I moved here, however, so the idea of me doing a quarterly cleaning is pretty far-fetched in practice. I need to start making money NOW so that I can pay someone more talented in the area of domestic organization than myself to do this crap while I watch TV. Housework is the worst, most exhausting, most unmitigatedly lame activity I've ever done. I'd rather have reverse piledriver anal with a spider (I really, really, REALLY hate spiders) than spend almost fourteen hours sweeping, sneezing, and being completely disgusted with myself.
On the bright side, my apartment is considerably more comfortable when it is clean, and I woke up this morning breathing easier than I have the past few weeks. I like not having to apologize for the mess when people come over. This process was also very educational. For example, I learned that a whole slew of my male partners prefer to chuck their used condoms on the floor under the bed rather than in the trash can. I pulled a veritable army of babies' worth of dried-up sperm depositories out from under there. I am going to have to try to maintain post-coital consciousness from now on long enough to ensure that whatever lazy fool I'm fucking gets his ass to the trash can. Now that the space under my bed is free from dog hair dust bunnies, empty Sugar-Free Red Bull cans, and used condoms from the random lays of antiquity, it better fucking stay that way. I don't want to have to do any more cleaning for a long time.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, fuck housework, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nick Cannon
DOB: October 8, 1980
Occupation: actor, rapper, kept man
Hometown: San Diego, California
Current residence: wherever Mariah wants to live, since it's on her tab
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In case anyone missed the news, Nick Cannon married Mariah Carey about two weeks ago, they got matching his-and-hers tattoos, rented Magic Mountain for their wedding reception, and have taken nearly every opportunity to tell the media how deeply in love they are and have been since they met...a month and a half ago. Since getting married, Nick Cannon has been working his new Mariah-sized bank account. He has been out shopping quite a bit and is cruising around in a sweet $100,000 Maserati. As his long-ago collabo (aptly named "Gigolo") with a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly reveals, Nick is more than willing to admit he's dick for hire. Well, okay, Nick seems to misunderstand the difference between an actual gigolo (ie: male prostitute) and a big slut (ie: "shorty call me the scarecrow, I'm lookin' for some brains"), but that doesn't mean he's not tricking anyway. In fact, he just hit the gigolo jackpot. He's the new Kevin Federline.
LL Cool Jew is one of the world's biggest Mimi fans, and virtually every time we some type of e-discussion, she brings up this storied relationship. For example, this Gchat:
LL Cool Jew is one of the world's biggest Mimi fans, and virtually every time we some type of e-discussion, she brings up this storied relationship. For example, this Gchat:
LL Cool Jew: have you seen nick cannon's "mariah" tattoo?
Razzy: YES
LL Cool Jew: headdesk
LL Cool Jew: i mean REALLY.
Razzy: methinks nick "i'm a gigolo" cannon is going to be making some laser tattoo removal tech very happy in a few months
Razzy: those two are too much
LL Cool Jew: i can't believe that shoulder to shoulder mariah tattoo
LL Cool Jew: omg omg.
Razzy: dude i know
Razzy: that is not something "a grown man not B2K" should be doing
LL Cool Jew: oh jesus.
LL Cool Jew: oh my lord.
LL Cool Jew: those lyrics
LL Cool Jew: i mean
LL Cool Jew: ... .
Razzy: i listened to that song this AM whilst writing about kells
Razzy: i'm not tryin' to be your man
Razzy: pimp bones in my body
Razzy: rock them like la-di-da-di
Razzy: me and kells on ducatis
Razzy: lemme see ya drop it shawty
LL Cool Jew: woo ee
Razzy: ooo-WEE
LL Cool Jew: thorray
Razzy: tryin' to leave the club with a grou-PIE
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: soooooooo dumb
LL Cool Jew: that song was only a hit because kells wrote it
LL Cool Jew: so obvious
Razzy: yes
I can only assume Nick Cannon managed to foment his "spiritual" relationship with Mimoo spitting obviously R. Kelly-authored lines like "I'm like David Beckham, keep a mean shoe game" and "bushes we won't beat around, bushes we just eating now." Either that, or Nick Cannon is rocking some truly high quality dick. Much as I'd like to think Nick is rocking a Nickelodeon-sized cannon, his dating CV suggests otherwise. Nick has gotten a lot of top shelf pussy in his young life thus far. He dated Christina Milian, Kim Kardashian (okay, that's not really top shelf, but she IS currently banging/ruining the penis of my boyfriend Reggie (Get in My) Bush), and Victoria's Secret model Selita Ebanks. Now he's managed to not only bang Mariah, but to secure his financial future via his promising to do so on a permanent basis. Nick Cannon is a whore who thinks long-term and clearly set his sights high. He has really worked himself up the ladder of gold-diggable poontang, and for such efforts, I commend him. A gigolo, indeed.
As an added bonus, I just thought of something else Nick Cannon really scored at when marrying Mariah. He might now be related to the greatest NFL official in the history of the world ever. Of course, that's assuming Mariah Carey is related to the hotness that is Mike Carey, a pretty hefty assumption considering their inherent character differences: she is a giant ball of butterfly-emblazoned, glitter-saturated ridiculousness and he is a model of efficiency and precision. However, just the possibility of being distantly related to Mike Carey would be worth a roll in Mariah's marital bed. For me, anyway. Again, you go, Nick Cannon.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, holy fucking matrimony, sluts
Friday, May 16, 2008
Now, usually I don't do this, but...
...go ahead and break 'em off with a little preview of the remix.
While normally you'd expect to hear "Now I'm not tryin' to be rude, but hey, pretty girl, I'm feelin' you, the way you do the things you do, reminds me of my Lexus coupe, that's why I'm all up in your grill, tryin' to get ya to my hotel, you must be a football coach the way you got me playin' the field" after that, but alas, this isn't a song by the World's Greatest R&B Thug, Robert Sylvester Kelly. This is, however, something almost as awesome: the dance remix of that video of O'Reilly flipping out at the "Inside Edition" teleprompter.
dddddd...FUCK IT!...dddddd...FUCK IT!
dddddd...FUCK IT!...dddddd...FUCK IT!
Genius.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tit for tat
Yesterday someone bitched that I'm supposed to put up titty pictures when I don't post. Well, I felt like there was some sort of Dickensian ghost in my chest rattling his chains mournfully with every breath and my nose was like a snot factory, so I was in no mood to flash for the camera. I realize my tits weren't sick, but when I feel crappy, I just don't feel like my exhibitionist self. Today I'm marginally better. My chest is rattling a little less, and the decongestants have done their appointed job, so I guess I'll make up for it. However, I can't really say I'm putting up a picture of my tits (plural) since that asshole Chingy! got in the way. Thus, here is a picture of my left tit (singular).
So sorry I failed to oblige yesterday. Hopefully you'll enjoy this 50% of my rack.
And CHONGAY CHONG, tits (plural)!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, excuses, nudity, Razzification, sluts
From the Smith College Vault: my two-year reunion
Smith likes to milk every penny possible from its alumnae, so they have reunions whenever possible to remind us of how fabulous our years at Fugly Bitch U were. The highlight of reunion is Ivy Day, the day before commencement, where graduating seniors and alumnae from the past five decades throw on virginal white dresses and march around campus carrying roses, ivy garlands, and signs that say lame shit like "2-4-6-8, let's hear it for the class of '68!"
Although I could care less about Ivy Day, I missed my college friends and thought reunion would be a great excuse to get really drunk with them for a few days. When my two-year reunion rolled around in 2002, I was living in the P-N-Dub. I decided to fly back for it, since my friend LL Cool Jew was graduating and I'd been meaning to visit my girls back east anyway. I called up my friend Wmania, who was working on Wall Street at the time, and we decided to get alumnae rooms and drive from NYC to Smith.
So I packed a white dress, flew to New York, hooked up with Wmania, and we got all excited to party our tits off in Northampton for the weekend. The next day we rented our car, double-parked outside Wmania's apartment on the Upper East Side, and ran upstairs to get our bags. We loaded up the trunk of the car and went to drive away, when Wmania unfortunately realized that she had thrown the car keys into the trunk with our luggage and slammed it shut. As our even worse luck would have it, the trunk release inside the car was broken. I called AAA, who sent a guy to disassemble the entire back seat of the car, and STILL couldn't get into the trunk. Those Chevy Caprices or whatever are like fortified tanks. Finally, Wmania convinced the car rental company to send someone with a spare key, and, two hours late, we were headed to New England.
We arrived, managed to barely make it to the Alumnae House for our room keys, and ran into K-Money, this girl who had lived in Jordan House with me and worked on the school paper. We dragged her off to Packard's, my old regular bar in town, and proceeded to get our drink on. LL Cool Jew showed up, and it was mostly a happy reunion. I say mostly because K-Money got all standoffish when I suggested that she was involved with the mob because she kept telling everyone she worked as an "union organizer," and she reiterated that she thought I hadn't worked hard enough/wasn't obedient enough to her during our senior year on the school newspaper. I shot back that she was a lousy editor-in-chief with poor management skills and she might just be jealous that people were more interested in reading my "Angie's Weekly Rant" column than her lame news stories. This could have turned out badly if we weren't distracted by the arrival of Death Rizzo, another friend from Jordan House, who made things right again.
It was lucky K-Money only stayed that one night, because she was the source of all sorts of problems. In addition to the escalating tension between her and myself, she and Wmania had history. She and Wmania are both straight, but they had hooked up and done a little light boobmashing during our senior year. The night before our graduation, I had bought a keg with the prize money I got for "excellence in microbiology and immunology research" at the Ivy Day ceremony earlier that day, and we were having a party so ridiculous on the Jordan second floor that a couch was actually thrown off the roof and narrowly missed destroying a Smith Public Safety cruiser. Wmania and K-Money decided that after a few drinks, they needed to have a heart-to-heart about their sexless lesbian relationship, and proceeded to start a major processing session. At some point someone alerted me to this, I announced, "There will be no fake lesbian processing tonight!" and tried to break it up. They sent me away, saying they were having an "important talk."
"Bullshit!" I declared. They were standing outside the back door of Jordan House, which is basically a big window pane. I stood inside while they kept talking and realized that no amount of teasing would get them back to the party, so I decided to just stand inside where they could see me and strip. I was totally nude by the time they noticed, but it was effective. Wmania immediately ceased gesticulating wildly as she described her emotions to K-Money, jerked open the door, and said something like, "JESUS CHRIST, Razzy, are you smoking CRACK COCAINE? YOU'RE BUTT NAKED!"
"No shit," I said. "Now are you guys going to cease and desist with the Smith girl bullshit and have another beer, or am I going to have to streak the Quad to distract you?" At that moment a bunch of random dudes came up the stairs and started hollering, "AWRIGHT, IT'S GET NAKED TIME!" Nobody took them up on their "it's get naked time" announcement, and I actually took that as a cue to put my clothes back on, but I thought it had permanently put a lid on Wmania's drama with K-Money. It did, until two-year reunion. After returning from Packard's, K-Money and Wmania started kissing and hanging out on the porch swing outside Albright House, where our alumnae rooms were. That turned into more processing, and when LL Cool Jew and I came outside to check on them, they were practically having another emotional girl spat. "Here we go again," I said, starting to unbutton my shirt.
"Oh God, are you going to strip again?" asked Wmania.
"If you two don't cut this out," I said.
"This is none of your business!" K-Money hissed at me.
"Let's go drink more," said Wmania. She came inside and the party resumed. K-Money was pissed. She left first thing the next morning and took all the bad vibes with her. From then on, it was straight-up PARTY TIME.
The next day, W-Mania and I went back to Packard's, and then out to dinner with LL Cool Jew's mom, her then-girlfriend Motherbucker, and a couple other random BDOCs (big dykes on campus) who were their friends. Then we went to Liquors 44, loaded up on gallons of every type of bottom shelf liquor, and went back to Albright House to get the party started. That was when our problems started with the girls in Albright.
Since commencement starts two weeks after finals, the only students around Smith in their dorms are graduating seniors. The empty rooms are then used for alumnae. We were unfortunate to get put up in Albright because they were notorious for being lamer than FDR's polio legs. LL Cool Jew lived in Albright her first year, and was accused of sexual harassment by some fugly LUG (lesbian until graduation AKA "the four-year plan") whose advances she'd declined. In fact, the coolest thing that ever happened in Albright House prior to our reunion was that my boyfriend Benzo popped my anal cherry there when I was crashing in some random girl's room during Spring Break my junior year. In the two years since I'd left Smith, Albright's residents had not gotten any less uptight, and within thirty minutes of our commencing partying there, some mousey bitch knocked on our door to complain about our smoking.
"Um, like, you need to, like, stop the smoking, because we can smell it in the hall," she said. No asking, just informing us passive-aggressively that we needed to be smoke-free. Motherbucker and I were at the door.
"So?" I said. "We're alumnae, we can do whatever we want."
"I, like, have asthma, so you really need to not do that," she reiterated.
Motherbucker blew a lungful of American Spirit smoke in this bitch's face, and she started coughing.
"I thought," she sputtered. "From one Smithie to another..."
"DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME A SMITHIE!" thundered Motherbucker. All my friends hate the term "Smithie." I think we'd all prefer to be called "Smith girls," "Smith alumnae," or "Smith bitches" over "Smithie."
The girl went back to her room. We resumed partying. There was soon another knock on our door. It was some buttoned-up turtleneck-wearing chick in her mid-thirties.
"Hi there, I'm from the Alumnae House, and some of the residents on this floor have complained about the smoke," she said.
"Isn't this a smoking floor?" someone asked.
"Well, yes, but if you could just try to be considerate so that you can enjoy your reunion and the residents of Albright can enjoy their commencement, that would be greatly appreciated."
"Okay, no problem," we said. As soon as she left, we all lit up. I think at some point we ventured over to LL Cool Jew's room in Chase House, where she told us that some girl down the hall had been giving her problems with noise complaints while she worked on her thesis. "I know I've been really NOISY underlining passages from The Quiet American," she fumed. "And I know that nothing says 'party' like Graham Greene's literary repertoire, but buy some fucking earplugs, bitch!"
"I'll take care of her," I said. I tiptoed to this girl's room and took a piss right outside her door. That'll learn her to complain about my little LL Cool Jew. Then I think we returned to Albright, so as not to get caught vengefully urinating on the hall carpet in Chase House.
At some point after all this partying, Motherbucker's male friend Fergus, who I had ignored because he was a redhead with mutton chop sideburns (both phenotypic traits I loathe) until I realized that he was fucking hilarious, stumbled into my room and passed out. When I finally made it there to pass out myself at around four, he was occupying my (twin-sized) bed. I shoved him over.
"Hey, asshole, you're going to have to make room for me if you're sleeping here, because I'm NOT sleeping on the fucking floor."
"No way are you sleeping on the floor," he replied, making room. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed.
Five minutes later, we were fucking. As it turns out, we were pretty physically compatible, and it was great sex in spite of our both being extremely drunk. I should add that I am NOT quiet when having sex, and especially not when having great sex. He wasn't quiet either, and being that we only had a creaky-springed twin bed and there was all sorts of spanking and that sort of thing going on, I'm pretty sure we woke up the asthmatic and all her equally uptight friends. I think we finally went to sleep around 7 a.m.
At 8 a.m., my phone alarm went off and I remembered that it was Ivy Day. "Fuck!" I said. "I'm supposed to go walk in the parade with the fucking alumnae." I looked out my window and saw that it was snowing. SNOWING! In the middle of May. "It's fucking snowing!" I exclaimed.
"You know what that means?" asked Fergus.
"That I'm going to freeze my tits off in this spaghetti-strap white dress I brought?" I asked.
"That you should blow off Ivy Day, get back into bed, and blow me instead," he said. I thought his reasoning was sound, so I shrugged, threw my dress back into my suitcase, and obliged. I'd rather suck dick than shiver and nip out of my Ivy Day dress in a freak spring snowstorm any day. Plus, I figured that a BJ would result in oral for me and regular sex afterward (it did). After fucking again, we went back to sleep and didn't get up until noon. We got up, showered, reconvened with the rest of the crew, and spent the afternoon bar hopping. That night, we promptly resumed the party in Wmania's room. There were probably about 10 people crammed in there, drinking and smoking and having a generally great time, when we ran out of mixers. For some reason, Fergus was fairly sober, so he offered to drive over to Cumberland Farms and restock, and volunteered me to go with him since I was his girlfriend for the weekend. On our way back with the mixers, we passed the asthmatic girl's room and could hear that she was having an impassioned discussion with her hallmates about how much she hated us. Naturally, we stood outside her door and eavesdropped, trying not to laugh audibly at the Harry Potter whiteboard she had on the outside of her door.
"And then, she BLEW SMOKE IN MY FACE! AFTER I TOLD THEM I HAD ASTHMA!"
"NO! That's terrible!" exclaimed some other girl, scandalized.
"You know what else," said yet another girl. "One of them is staying across the hall from me, and woke me up this morning HAVING SEX."
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" they asked, aghast.
"And get this...it was MALE-FEMALE SEX. Like, WITH A MAN."
This ushered in a cacophony of "OH MY GODs" and other similar expressions of disapproving horror.
Fergus and I gave each other a congratulatory knuckle pound and went back to tell everyone else what we'd heard. Everyone in our group was appalled that these girls were so undeniably lame that the night before their college graduation, they were wallowing in righteous outrage about how much more fun we were having than them rather than celebrating like any normal college student. Even by Smith standards, that's pathetic.
I guess their little emotional circle-jerk compelled them to further action, because there was soon a knock at the door. Actually, it was more of an authoritative pounding accompanied by an announcement "PUBLIC SAFETY! Open up!"
We opened the door to find a bespectacled Public Safety officer who looked like Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds grown up and employed as an unarmed rent-a-cop at an all-girls liberal arts school. He told us to take the party elsewhere or we'd be kicked out.
We protested. "We paid for these rooms," Wmania said. "We're all over 21. There's no reason why we shouldn't be allowed to drink in them."
"Listen, you can drink, but you've gotten over 5 noise and smoke complaints in the last 24 hours. And I can see that you're all acting very bolsterous."
"BOLSTEROUS?" I said.
LL Cool Jew shushed me before I could point out that the word he was looking for was actually "boisterous" and it was decided that it would be easier to just go somewhere else than get kicked out of alumnae housing and spend the night sleeping in our rental car. So we went to Capen Annex, the office of the school newspaper, The Sophian, and tried to figure out how to break in. Motherbucker climbed a tree, broke into the yearbook's office upstairs, and came downstairs to let everyone in. We partied there until 5 a.m., vandalizing the place (I think I wrote "YOU'LL HAVE TO PAINT OVER ME TO GET ME OUT OF CAPEN ANNEX" on the wall in Sharpie) and listening to Dr. Dre.
The next morning, I put on my bikini. It was only 50 degrees out, but I had worn a bikini to every Smith commencement I attended except my own (where I think I wore a bikini under my gown), and I wasn't about to stop. I made Bloody Marys for everyone, and we settled onto "tar beach", a stretch of roof between Jordan and Emerson House, to watch the ceremonies. FalloniusMonk showed up right when my vodka ran out with a toolbox of booze, which kept the party going. By the time commencement was over, I was absolutely shitfaced. I was so drunk I literally fell on my ass while I was talking to my favorite professor Saratoga120. Then I made an ass out of myself at the house in Hatfield where LL Cool Jew's mom's friends, who were Tai Chi and yoga instructors, held a graduation party in her honor. FalloniusMonk told me she'd give me a ride back to New York so Wmania could leave early (she was over it and ready to resume her life as a responsible private equity analyst.) Besides, FalloniusMonk had a big fat joint, which we smoked on our way back to Smith from this party. Once back, she rounded up Rack, Rack's then-girlfriend, and their other friend while I tracked down Fergus for one last horizontal mambo before we parted ways.
That was the last time I visited Smith College, and it's high time I went back. I have no doubt that within 5 minutes of my arrival, I'll find the handful of cool kids there, get wasted, hopefully get laid, and piss off everyone else within earshot. Now, if only my Razzyphiles in Jordan House invite me back for alumnae tea, I'll show them all how a real hardcore Smith bitch does it: drunk, hollering, and constantly in trouble with the Smith establishment.
Labels: alcoholism, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, Smith College Vault, Wmania
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jordan House
DOB: 1922
Occupation: Smith College's biggest party house
Hometown: Northampton, Assachusetts
Current residence: Paradise Road, Northampton, Assachusetts
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While stalking myself on the internets, I discovered a new link to my website from some chick's Livejournal page. I went to this page, and was surprised and delighted at what I read:
Last Thursday at senior banquet everybody got willed a bunch of shit my the seniors. I got some horrible faded rainbow 3-d cloth stapled to a piece of plywood, a t-shirt that says "totes not vomitor betch," and a huge picture of Audrey Hepburn. Ellie and Kaitlin, on the other hand, got the most amazing will ever: A diary from a girl's first year at Smith, a '99 grad. By the time they get willed this gift, I'm completely drunk from the 40 Aliza got me (yeah, lightweight), so I stole it from their box (temporairily), ran upstairs, and started reading it because I am such a sucker for hearing stories about a person's 'college days.' Needless to say, the girl was fucking crazy. An incredible writer, who often, and without modesty, talked about how awesome she was, spoke about her days of taking Ketmine, smoking more weed than you can imagine, fucking guys, and hating herself.I thought this was amusing. I didn't even remember keeping a diary my first year at Smith. Well, I do, but I still have that diary (mainly because in the back of it is my official and comprehensive sex partner list), so I thought it was funny that not only did I keep some other diary, but that it's now a treasured heirloom being willed from one Jordan House resident to another at Senior Banquet. I have no doubt that it's mine, since the "talking about how awesome (I) was" and "taking Ketamine, smoking more weed than you can imagine, (and) fucking guys" part seems right on the mark. As for the part about hating myself, I was pretty unhappy my first year at Smith adjusting to living on the East Coast and making new friends, although I don't recall it actually getting into self-loathing territory. I was 18, however, and tended to be more overly dramatic about my personal issues than now, so I'm sure I was probably comprehensively self-deprecating.
So. We looked her up on google. She's still crazy, has this fucked up website with a really cynical blog and pictures of her boobs, but it's so weird that she talks about my house, the dead girl's room, Jordan House parties, ect.
I left a comment on this girl's blog, thanking her for calling me "an incredible writer" and asking whether the treasured pot leaf necklace that I had long ago willed to my friend Martindale, was still being passed down from stoner to stoner. It turns out that in fact it was willed to the girl's roommate, and furthermore that "all the Jordanites who read (my) blog think (I am) fucking awesome" and I should expect an invitation to their alumnae tea. FUCK YES! It seems that Jordan is maintaining its reputation as the Smith College party house (or, at least in the words of my bloggity admirer, "the least lame house on campus"), for which it was legendary back in days of yore (ie: 10 years ago when I was living there).
Now, I can hear the collective scoffing coming from everyone on the internets who knows anything about Smith College. I know that nothing at Smith can be described as a "party house" compared to any average undergrad's apartment at almost any state school. I went to visit my friend G-Boner at her school (Arizona State) during my sophomore year at Smith, and their Tuesday night was a more happening party with more kegs and bong hits and hot girls than anything Smith produced when it tried to party hard. However, by Smith standards, Jordan was positively insane, so it's fitting I lived there for four years.
When I first got to Smith, I was told that Jordan couldn't have parties until October due to social probation levied after an incident the previous year. The house president at the time was dating a member of the Holyoke chapter of the Latin Kings, and a fight broke out between the gang members and these townies who were also there. My ex-boyfriend Benzo was there that night, and he said that most people had taken refuge in the rooms on the second floor (he himself was getting a BJ from this girl who used to hook me up with Ritalin when I had to learn a semester's worth of organic chemistry in three nights for finals). From these rooms, they could hear screaming and bodies being thrown up against the walls as the entire floor was occupied by a straight-up brawl. Supposedly, people were also caught smoking crack in the second floor bathroom that night, and some dude was arrested after brandishing a gun, although these might be fanciful embellishments to the Jordan legend. The house president was no longer there when I started as a first-year, but Jordan's legacy as the nerve center of Smith's party scene was cemented, and I knew I was in the right house.
During my tenure at Smith, a whole hell of a lot of things happened on my watch to ensure that Jordan's reputation continued. Within two days of my arrival, I got busted for assisting a junior I had befriended with carrying in cases of beer she bought for us. My first-year class had floor parties good enough to attract almost all the cool upperclassbitches on the second floor and half of Amherst College. Over the years in Jordan, I proceeded to become one of the most notorious potheads in Smith College memory (right down to getting busted for possession of a class D substance and candles, and thus punished with a semester in "the dead girl's room," where this unfortunate girl had hung herself my sophomore year). I tried to start a fraternity of girls in Jordan House, and spent a good year making everyone tape "PKE" to their doors. I watched a hell of a lot of "Beverly Hills, 90210," made a porn with my boyfriend and two girls living in Emerson House, took so many bong hits it's a miracle I'm not still stoned, and was sad to depart.
Yesterday while I was home convalescing and waiting for new episodes of "Deadwood" to download, I was Gchatting with LL Cool Jew and decided to mention the shout-out from current Jordan denizens to her. Unlike me, who stayed put in Jordan all four years, LL Cool Jew was a Smith nomad. During her first year she lived in Albright House, an unbearably lame house where she was wrongly accused of sexual harassment by a girl she'd rejected, then she moved to Jordan for one semester, then into a Friedman apartment, then somewhere else I don't remember since I had graduated by that point, and then into Chase House for her senior year. She moved out of Jordan because my friend Martindale lived around the corner from her, and Martindale was then involved in a tempestuous relationship with this townie guy that ultimately ended with grand theft auto, a restraining order, and him doing jail time, but that's another story. However, LL Cool Jew's one semester in Jordan was enough to qualify her as at least a Jordan appreciator. Once a Jordanite, always a Jordanite.
Razzy: want to see something that's not liz ame?
Razzy: http://sparklemotion89.livejournal.com/9990.html
Razzy: extant smith college girls think i'm "fucking awesome" and want to invite me to their alumnae tea!
Razzy: at JORDAN HOUSE
LL Cool Jew: WOW
Razzy: i know!
LL Cool Jew: that is ridonk
Razzy: cracked me up!
Razzy: i would love to go to that fucking jordan house alumnae tea
LL Cool Jew: ME TOO
LL Cool Jew: even though i only lived there one semester
LL Cool Jew: it was a harrowing experience
Razzy: that counts!
Razzy: indeed
Razzy: constantly hearing martindale's domestic battles
LL Cool Jew: it was at the height of martindale's insantiy with her boyfriend
LL Cool Jew: the townie
LL Cool Jew: on alternate nights i could hear them humping passionately or fighting
Razzy: that was how they rolled
LL Cool Jew: my room was kitty corner to hers
Razzy: i know your room was, i moved into it after you left!
Razzy: remember, cause i was in the dead girl's room!
LL Cool Jew: that's right!
Razzy: that's how i met (LL Cool Jew's grandmother, who liked me so much she sent us to Ibiza for Spring Break that year, so LL Cool Jew could spend more time with our friend Wmania and myself before we graduated)!
Razzy: she called looking for you
Razzy: x7080
LL Cool Jew: oh RIGHT....
LL Cool Jew: jesus dude
LL Cool Jew: your mind is like the proverbial steel trap
Razzy: i can't believe i remember the extension
LL Cool Jew: how the f do you do that
Razzy: steel trap for useless bullshit
LL Cool Jew: sometimes the things you remember startle me.
Razzy: they startle me too
LL Cool Jew: anyway, that was a pretty good smith room
Razzy: it was!
Razzy: it was big
Razzy: got great light
Razzy: quadside
LL Cool Jew: the dead girls room wasn't tho
LL Cool Jew: teence
Razzy: the dead girl's room was also dark
Razzy: no wonder she offed herself
Razzy: it was gloomy as shit
LL Cool Jew: and full of dead girl vibes dude
Razzy: yeah i didn't notice much of that
Razzy:didn't see any ghosts while there
Razzy: i figure that poor girl was so unhappy
Razzy: she wouldn't want to be stuck for eternity at smith
LL Cool Jew: god no
I'm so hardcore about Jordan that I even remember the extension of that room. I think the dead girl's room was extension x7181, the room I lived in my junior year right about the Jordan front door was x7076, and the room I lived in my sophomore year next to the dead girl's room was x7183. Jordan has clearly made an indelible mark on my psyche. I really hope I get invited to that alumnae tea so I can buy liquor for the current Jordanites, smoke their pot, and maybe even get some hot girl-on-girl with any cute bi girls dwelling there! Jordan for life!
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew
Daily Douchebag: "Grey's Anatomy"
DOB: March 27, 2005
Occupation: sucking balls
Hometown: Sunday nights
Current residence: Thursday nights at 9
Douchebaggery: Last night I was coughing and eating soup in the comfort of my sickbed when I noticed that it was 9 o'clock. "Hey," I thought. "It's Thursday! That means a new episode of 'Lost' is on!" I flipped over to ABC.
Unfortunately, there was no "Lost" on. Instead of seeing Sayid's hot, beater-clad self beating up random mercenaries on board the freighter and stealing Zodiac boats, I instead see Doctor McDouchebag running around flashing his dimple wearily at people, Katherine Heigl in scrubs looking uptight and ready to bitch at someone, and that scrawny, strung out-looking chick narrating the whole thing with mixed metaphors and complaints about how hard and crazy life is as a surgeon. "No!" I said. "This can't be...why is 'Gay's Shitnatomy' on instead of 'Lost'?"
Then I remembered that ABC is always dicking around with their schedule. "Lost" used to be on Wednesdays, but when it started showing up on Thursdays at 9, I just figured that "Grey's Anatomy" had been shuffled off to some other night where I won't be troubled with it. By "troubled," I mean "whipped into a frenzy of potentially homicidal rage." Nothing infuriates me more than being all psyched to find out how Locke's irritatingly cryptic ass is actually going to move the island out of harm's way and instead seeing Sandra Oh look as though she is about to whinny enthusiastically and gallop into an operating room with the Space Needle in the background.
"Grey's Anatomy" is a terrible show for many reasons that I've described previously. Since then, it's gotten even worse. From what I've seen thus far, Dr. Grey is busy getting therapy (totally useless since she hates her shrink and only serves as a venue for her to whine incessantly), the homophobic black guy has been replaced by some bossy blonde lesbian, and the short gay dude somehow managed to bang Katherine Heigl and they're now having some trite relationship drama. As usual, there's very little surgery going on, and these assholes seem to get paid primarily for acting like a bunch of neurotic junior high kids all day. The only redeeming quality about this show is its providing jobs for Henry, manager of the Beverly Hills Beach Club, and D'Shawn Hardell from "Beverly Hills, 90210." While I'm glad that Henry has been reincarnated as the chief of surgery at Seattle Grace rather than a lowly beach club manager with a "Young and the Restless" fetish, even his presence is insufficient to make this show likable. Loathing "Grey's Anatomy" is one thing, but having it pop up on my TV where "Lost" should be is quite another. For the sake of my sanity and my managing to avoid jail by not committing any violent crimes, I'd better remember that "Lost" comes on Thursday at 10. Not 9. TEN!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Grey's Anatomy, Lost, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Daily Douchebag: human rhinovirus
DOB: ???
Occupation: infecting my upper respiratory tract
Hometown: ???
Current residence: my nasal mucosa
Douchebaggery: I'm fucking sick. My skank ass is dying of AIDS! Kidding. As usual, it's with my age-old nemesis: human rhinovirus. I suppose it could also be an adenovirus, but knowing how the Picornaviridae like to taunt me and make my life hell in lab, I suspect it's goddamn motherfucking rhinovirus. I know all about rhinovirus, because not only have I given countless seminar talks and virology data club talks and lab meetings and whatnot about it, I spend all day fruitlessly trying to give it to mice in the hopes that one day I might publish it and get my Ph.ake doctor degree and get the fuck out of grad school. Well, that and develop a useful small animal model which will aid scientists in developing better therapies and possibly even a vaccine or cure for this lame fucking bitch-ass cocksucking prostitute of a virus.
In spite of the fact that I grow rhinovirus in HeLa cells by the bucket and make hot Power Point slides like the one above (even though dumbass Power Point doesn't recognize that "icosahedral" is a word), rhinovirus continues to abuse and malign me. It also continues to abuse and malign all you Razzyphiles, because when I feel this shitty, all that occurs to me is "want sleep, hate school, feel crappy" rather than any kind of useless bullshit worth writing. So sadly, I'm taking a day off in the hopes that my convalescence will render me more useful tomorrow. Sorry, dudes.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, excuses, viruses rule
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The greatest form of flattery?
I was just wasting time looking at what links the greatest website in the history of the internets (AKA RAZZY.org!) had acquired, and found this one. At first, I was pissed because I thought I was being plagiarized. I guess I sort of was plagiarized, but via some sort of faux-literary word filter: 
From Loispki's "romantic poetry" blog: ARE Himself FUCKING Bluffing Subconscious self? Reactive current standards on account of attractiveness are dispassionate supplemental dismally impoverished by comparison with Manes mutually streak.
From my post: Before the haters jump out here and say that I'm jealous or something equally unlikely, let me just say that if there were an online poll about the hottest grad students studying virology or microbiology or even any biomedical science, I wouldn't even have to cheat to be a contender. For one thing, most people in my field look like a cross between a product of the Tri-Lambda or Omega Mu Greek system and a fighting Uruk-Hai. Comparatively, the Aileen Wuornos-meets-Ann Coulter-meets Tonya Harding thing I've got going on is actually kind of hot, and I have faith that my tits (and willingness to display them in all their blazing glory) would propel me to success in such a contest.
From Loispki's "romantic poetry" blog: Historically the haters solo extinguished now and vote that Anima’m suspicious flanch dowhacky warrantedly remote, imagine subliminal self sterling management that if there were an online file in the air the hottest grad students studying virology fleur-de-lis life science cream match up with sole biomedical academic discipline, My humble self wouldn’t match assimilate so that chouse out of towards be in existence a swordplayer. Whereas all-embracing things, plurality blood entranceway my martlet approach a angry between a handiwork as respects the Tri-Lambda flanch Stopping place Mu Conventioneer master plan and a chauvinist Uruk-Hai. To an extent, the Aileen Wuornos-meets-Ann Coulter-meets Tonya Harding being Soul’ve got in progress is obviously moderately white-hot, and Alterum cozen confidence that my tits(and disposition till illustrate yourself near just their scorching renown) would set in motion she on route to transcendence good understanding image a tilt.
Uh...okay. The author of this weblog apparently took a post I wrote a long time ago douchebagging these hipster tools from our nation's capital for rigging a vote about being the hottest blog journalists in the District of Cocksuckers and reworded it. For example:
From my post: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? DC standards for attractiveness are even more dismally bereft than I even thought.
From Loispki's "romantic poetry" blog: ARE Himself FUCKING Bluffing Subconscious self? Reactive current standards on account of attractiveness are dispassionate supplemental dismally impoverished by comparison with Manes mutually streak.
From my post: Before the haters jump out here and say that I'm jealous or something equally unlikely, let me just say that if there were an online poll about the hottest grad students studying virology or microbiology or even any biomedical science, I wouldn't even have to cheat to be a contender. For one thing, most people in my field look like a cross between a product of the Tri-Lambda or Omega Mu Greek system and a fighting Uruk-Hai. Comparatively, the Aileen Wuornos-meets-Ann Coulter-meets Tonya Harding thing I've got going on is actually kind of hot, and I have faith that my tits (and willingness to display them in all their blazing glory) would propel me to success in such a contest.
From Loispki's "romantic poetry" blog: Historically the haters solo extinguished now and vote that Anima’m suspicious flanch dowhacky warrantedly remote, imagine subliminal self sterling management that if there were an online file in the air the hottest grad students studying virology fleur-de-lis life science cream match up with sole biomedical academic discipline, My humble self wouldn’t match assimilate so that chouse out of towards be in existence a swordplayer. Whereas all-embracing things, plurality blood entranceway my martlet approach a angry between a handiwork as respects the Tri-Lambda flanch Stopping place Mu Conventioneer master plan and a chauvinist Uruk-Hai. To an extent, the Aileen Wuornos-meets-Ann Coulter-meets Tonya Harding being Soul’ve got in progress is obviously moderately white-hot, and Alterum cozen confidence that my tits(and disposition till illustrate yourself near just their scorching renown) would set in motion she on route to transcendence good understanding image a tilt.
I can't tell if it's supposed to sound like one of those spam e-mails you get that have a lot of florid yet nonsensical language disguising a sales pitch for fake Canadian Viagra, or if it's supposed to sound like "romantic poetry" as the blog's title implies. It's barely readable, but I am amused nonetheless. In fact, maybe I should start calling LL Cool Jew "LL Equable Jew" from now on.
My only question is why did this person pick THIS particular blog entry to rework? I can only assume the author is acquainted with the hipster tools I douchebagged, and thought it would be funny to apply their pseudo-Shakespearean/romantic poetry/spam filter to it. In any event, I'm glad I have fans ardent enough to rewrite Daily Douchebags from days of yore in barely comprehensible pretentious gibberish. Good times.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), internet domination, Razzification
Most hilarious Presidential biopic EVER
I usually don't like Oliver Stone movies. In fact, the only ones I can think of that I did like were Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July. Oh, I also liked Wall Street. I guess JFK had its moments, but I got bored and all I remember is that Kevin Bacon was some kind of gigolo butt boy for closeted homo politicians. I think. I would have liked Any Given Sunday if it weren't for the constant annoying presence of Jamie Foxx, and when I was in high school my ex-boyfriend was always listening to the Natural Born Killers soundtrack, but otherwise Oliver Stone can lick my twat. I would rather let Dick Cheney buttfuck me with a birdshot-loaded hunting rifle than watch that 9/11 movie he made, and if one of his movies doesn't have something to do with the Vietnam War or young Michael Douglas playing an asshole yuppie, I'm not really interested.
However, I can't fucking WAIT to see his new movie W., about none other than our current commander-in-chief. First, he cast Josh Brolin as Dubya, and I've had a hard-on for Brolin ever since he was the hottest Pony Express employee in the history of mail carriers on "The Young Riders."
Also, a script leaked to Cindy Adams of the peerless New York Post indicates that this movie is going to be absolutely fucking hilarious. Choice snippets of dialogue include:
- Bush to General Tommy Franks: "I don't want to fire no $2 million dollar missile at a $10 dollar empty tent and hit a camel in the ass."
- Bush on Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton: "My mother waddles faster than that lardass."
- Bush on Gitmo: "We'll move these terr'ists to Guantanamera."
- Bush on being corrected by Cheney that the place in Cuba is actually called "Guantanamo": "Vice, when we're in meetings, I want you to keep a lid on it. Keep your ego in check. Remember, I'm the president."
- Bush, Sr. to a college age Dubya: "You never kept your word once...you're only good for partying, chasing tail, driving drunk."
- Bush during his decision to go to war in Iraq: "Wolfowitz, got any Maalox on you? And trim your ear hairs while you're at it."
- Bush on Saddam Hussein: "Saddam's been dicking us around for 11 years. I told my father to get rid of the sucker."
- Bush to education reformers: "Rarely is the question asked, 'Is our children learning?'"
The Post has all sorts of other details about the film, including descriptions of scenes featuring Dick Cheney stepping in cow shit while visiting the ranch in Crawford and Bush eating his favorite meal (a bologna sandwich) in the White House. I would watch this movie just to see Brolin call Colin Powell "Balloonfoot" and bitch at him for not being more punctual. It sounds like it's going to be The Naked Gun of presidential biopics. Compared to films like All the President's Men (which I fell asleep during) and JFK (which, again, the only part I remember is Kevin Bacon's turn as a gay man-whore), this sounds like a rollicking good time. Props to Oliver Stone for striking comedy gold. Come opening day, I'm going to eat some "special" brownies and prepare to laugh until my stomach hurts.
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, movies, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Sometimes you just want to say "Fuck it!"
This has been circulating on the internets for the past couple days, but my friend JerseyGirl sent me an e-mail yesterday demanding that I "must must must" post it on my blog. She's a cable news producer, so she obviously has a clue about what merits inclusion into public media and what doesn't, so I figured I should defer to her expertise and comply.
I can relate to Bill's frustration at the technical difficulties he's experiencing as part of his job. Often I'll be in lab and the ultracentrifuge will fail to maintain a vacuum or the flow cytometer won't switch out of "Standby" mode and I too will fervently exclaim, "FUCKIN' THING SUCKS!" I similarly have issues with controlling my rage when forced to watch even a small portion of a Sting music video. God, "Inside Edition"-era O'Reilly and I are practically the same person. Uff da.
This is a video of Bill O'Reilly back when he was in the trashy tabloid journalism business rather than the trashy propaganda business...sorry, I meant the "No Spin Zone." Apparently some sorry production assistant was having a few technical difficulties with the teleprompter, and this caused Bill to lose it:
See more funny videos at CollegeHumor
I can relate to Bill's frustration at the technical difficulties he's experiencing as part of his job. Often I'll be in lab and the ultracentrifuge will fail to maintain a vacuum or the flow cytometer won't switch out of "Standby" mode and I too will fervently exclaim, "FUCKIN' THING SUCKS!" I similarly have issues with controlling my rage when forced to watch even a small portion of a Sting music video. God, "Inside Edition"-era O'Reilly and I are practically the same person. Uff da.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, retard rage, TV
The eternal question
For years, man has pondered a great mystery, and I'm not talking about the meaning of life or whether God exists. I'm talking about WHO is the hotter douchebag in "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 4, Dan Rubin or Roy Randolph? Philosophers have debated this for centuries, and by "philosophers" I mean myself, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper, and by "centuries" I mean since last Friday.
Like most intensely complicated questions, there is no easy answer. Although I realize that a question of this magnitude is a lot to ponder, I now have to ask the internets to weigh in, because this debate is simply too great and intense to be addressed by a small consort of rabid Bev Niner fans. So, without further ado, take it away, internets:
WHO IS HOTTER: DAN RUBIN OR ROY RANDOLPH?
Dan Rubin
The son of a wealthy family from Encino, California, Dan Rubin was supplementing his undoubtedly meager English lit grad student stipend with free room and board as a residential advisor at California University's dorms. There he met freshman Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, and, after a lot of lame debates about feminism and whether or not the Alpha Omega sorority is antisemitic, manages to take her V-card. Unfortunately, Dan Rubin invites Buzzkill to a party at his parents' house, where she falls decisively in love with bartending law student Jesse Vasquez and dumps Dan Rubin on his bike short-clad ass.
Pros:
- Smart and articulate (getting Ph.D in English lit)
- Nerdy Jew (this is fucking SMOKING hot in my book)
- Chivalrous (won't bang Buzzkill immediately when she tells him she's a virgin, because he wants it to be "special" for her)
- Skanky (doesn't need to be asked twice to go hit the sheets in the afternoon with his student)
Cons:
- Long hair
- Willing to fuck Buzzkill Zuckerman, indicating a severe lack of taste
- Wears spandex, a fabric no man has any business putting on unless he's either a gymnast or an American Gladiator (his hobby is bike-riding)
- Lives in freshman dorm even though he's probably pushing 30 (which might explain why he liked Buzzkill so much)
- Doesn't handle rejection well
- Possibly racist against Mexicans (although in fairness, this might just be him hating on Jesse Vasquez for stealing his bitch)
Roy Randolph
A sort-of prestigious director of various college theater productions, Roy Randolph cleverly pits Kelly Taylor, Brenda Walsh, and Laura Kingman against each other for the role of Maggie the Cat in Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brenda is unhappy about Kelly's involvement, since she was the one who spent hours in the California University library periodicals section stalking Roy Randolph via microfiche. Kelly ultimately drops out, causing Roy Randolph to trumpet that he was gravely disappointed at her choice not to escape her "frivolous little life" by agreeing to a lead role on the infamous stage of California University's theater department. In the ensuing battle between Brenda and Laura, Brenda makes up for a poor audition performance by going over to Roy Randolph's crib and doing...the scene over again. However, everyone thinks Brenda slept with him because Roy Randolph is noted for banging all his leading ladies. Once Brenda gets over feeling like Kelly (ie: a big slut), she parlays her success with Roy Randolph into a one-way ticket to study drama in London and leave the world's greatest zip code for good.
Pros:
- Educated
- Famous enough to have had his picture in the paper
- Has a Harry Hamlin-meets-Viggo Mortensen thing going on
- He's in theater and is presumably not gay, judging by all the actress notches on his belt
- Smooth when it comes to bullshitting the ladies
Cons:
- Arrogant asshole (informs Kelly her life will be ruined if she doesn't participate in his dumb college play)
- Looks like one of the Three Musketeers in a bad print vest and an even worse print shirt
- Newspaper photographs of him WAY hotter than the real thing
- Long hair
- Bad theaterfag accent ("let go of your crrrrrrrrutch!")
So there you have the facts; now please help settle this debate once and for all by weighing in. Who is hotter, Dan Rubin or Roy Randolph? DISCUSS.
Labels: Bev Niner, for serious people, JerseyGirl, Twathopper
Daily Douchebag:the producers of "The Bachelor"
DOB: who cares?
Occupation: crafting shiteously boring television
Hometown: wherevs
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I have NEVER liked "The Bachelor." The premise of 25 broads desperate for marriage competing for the affections of a boring guy doesn't do anything for me. I can't relate to any woman who cries and whines because some generic, white bread rich guy didn't take her on a date with ten other equally frivolous women. I'd rather watch one of Vh1's "______ of Love" shows, since at least those have a shot at bringing the ridiculous drama (although "Rock of Love 2," "I Love New York 2," and "Flavor of Love 3" were almost as boring and anticlimactic as any given episode of "The Bachelor.") Granted, I likewise can't relate to any woman whose goal is to fuck Flavor Flav, but at least they're over-the-top and entertaining. "The Bachelor" is a fucking overrated snorefest. I hate the way the "rose ceremony" is portrayed as some sort of pivotal life-changing moment, I hate the pretentious way that the titular dude and his horde of groupies pay a lot of lip service to their quest for true love (often played up as more difficult and strife-ridden than the quest for the Holy Grail), and I HATE the way the show always ends with an insincere marriage proposal and a fugly cubic zirconium ring.
What I dislike most about "The Bachelor," however, is the fact that this show COULD be entertaining. The producers, however, keep it classy by ensuring that all the obvious drunks and/or sluts are eliminated promptly, leaving nothing but a bunch of cookie cutter ex-Clinique counter makeup artists to battle passive-aggressively for the right to be proposed to and subsequently dumped by whatever loser is looking for the love of his life this season. Case in point: Shayne Lamas, the winner of this season's bachelor's heart. Shayne celebrated her victory by posing suggestively for the sophisticated, extremely literary periodical known as Girls Gone Wild magazine. She is also the daughter of one Lorenzo Lamas, and you know that a childhood spent on the set of "Falcon Crest" and "Renegade" produced one hell of a Z-list slut. You know that Shayne is a skank-ass ho and if this whole "Bachelor" thing didn't work out, she'd probably fall back on "glamour modeling" (AKA bukkake photo shoots for Swank magazine) or star in the next season of "The Bad Girls Club." Undoubtedly, if "The Bachelor" house had been furnished anything like Bret Michaels's crib from "Rock of Love," it would have presented an awesome opportunity for Shayne to prove her aptitude at working a stripper pole. However, to watch any episode of "The Bachelor," you would think that Shayne was the height of elegance and refinement who just happens to have a total porn star first name. According to "The Bachelor" production edits, Shayne is on par with Princess Di in terms of class and breeding.
"The Bachelor" fails to live up to its potential as a show that entertains anyone besides lame women who sit on their fat asses eating ice cream, read Harlequin paperbacks, and drink wine spritzers when they go out. I hate things that fail to meet their potential, so fuck "The Bachelor."
Labels: Daily Douchebag, sluts, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kayden Kross
Real name: ???
DOB: September 15, 1985
Occupation: porn star, blogger
Hometown: Sacramento, California
Current residence: ???--the San Fernando Valley, maybe?
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Kayden Kross is a porn star, albeit one I didn't pay much to until recently. Granted, Kayden Kross is a hot chick, but most porn stars are, and I hadn't really seen anything particularly memorable that she'd been in (although I'm sure I will, since she's now replacing Carmen Luvana as Adam and Eve's number one contract girl, and I buy all my sex toys from them because they throw in a free porn video). However, Kayden Kross recently started writing for one of the porn blogs I keep up with, and I was very, very surprised at her material.
Usually when porn stars blog, they write like they learned how from instant messaging and MySpace comment boards. Most content on porn star blogs is along the lines of "i gotz 2 get sum sleep cuz i have 2 do an anal scene 2morow lolZ! :D" or "this is 2 adress rumers i m hooking i never escorted & wont ever y wld i when i make 500 per seen, just wanned to clear that up k gota go!" So when I read Kayden's first post there, I was surprised to be reading an articulate, grammatically solid, and frankly, funny piece composed by a porn star. I'd never read a first-person account of what it's like to be a feature porn star that was so honest, engaging, and well-written (and Jenna Jameson's book does NOT count; trust that she was too busy getting facial implants and Restalyne injections to write that trash herself). I'd certainly never read any porn star write candidly about the experience of making it through the bathroom without slipping on "the perpetual enema juice" (GROSS) over at Vivid's production site.
Needless to say, Kayden Kross's writing piqued my interest and curiosity, and I've been following her posts since. So I was very excited to wake up this morning and moderate a comment from someone named "Kayden" on a post I wrote ages ago about Shelley Lubben, an ex-hooker/porn star/tweaker and current born-again Jesus freak/anti-porn crusader/self-righteous hypocrite. This Shelley Lubben post amuses me because, since I wrote it, a steady stream of comments have been trickling in, accusing me of being hateful, a porn addict, a bad Christian, and a hypocrite myself. In fact, this post continues to attract so many commenters that I even douchebagged the anonymous commenters who were hassling me about not being as sanctimonious as Ms. Lubben. Upon receiving a comment from someone named "Kayden," I thought to myself, "Could it be that Kayden Kross wrote this comment?" The comment was decidedly pro-porn, clearly articulated, and sounded Kayden Kross-y:
I personally witnessed the extent that Shelley will go to yesterday. She claims 90% of porn stars are on drugs. She claims 90% have STDs (oppostion brought in proof that these claims were entirely untrue). She claims there is no way a girl can actually be happy in porn or like what they do. She did all of this in front of a tax committee in support of a bill that would effectively kill the adult industry. I think she is just trying to make her job easier. If she takes away the option of doing porn she won't have to spend any time trying to convince girls that they are miserable sinners.
Then I went to mikesouth.com, only to see a post by Kayden Kross entitled "Shelley Lubben is a bitchcuntwhore and Calderon is a Political Stereotype," her take on a bill currently in California's state legislature which will tax the porn industry to death. Kayden does an excellent job pointing out that this bill is a shady attempt to circumvent rights to free speech, and addressing both misconceptions about the porn industry (all girls are on drugs, everyone has STDs, etc.) and skewering Shelley Lubben, who apparently put on quite the show for the Golden State's congress. I have come to the conclusion that indeed Kayden Kross left this comment. YES!
Whether or not this post has turned Kayden Kross into a Razzyphile, I don't know, but I'm nonetheless thrilled that the goddamned Joan Didion of porn bloggers decided to take a few moments to put her two cents on my comment pages. This is almost as great as the time the mighty Captain Sig Hansen of the F/V Northwestern called me his .1 fan on his MySpace page! I had better find an excuse to order more sex toys from Adam and Eve so I can get caught up on my Kayden Kross films, STAT.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, down with OPB (other people's blogs), free fucking speech, hot chicks, porn, sluts
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Judicial membership has its privileges
I just read a funny story over at MSNBC about a judge currently facing an inquiry for her behavior since ascending to her judgeship. Elizabeth Halvorsen, some district court judge in Nevada, has been locked out of her own courtroom for being straight-up ridiculous. Among her offenses:
- Riding around on a motorized scooter
- Ordered her bailiff to put her shoes on for her and massage her feet and back
- Ordered her bailiff to put a blanket over her and refill her oxygen tank
- Asked bailiff if he would prefer to "worship (her) from near or afar."
- Swore her husband in so she could ask him under oath if he finished his household chores
- Hiring her own posse of security-exempt Blackwater guards to protect her
- Called 911 on court administrators stopping by her office
- Caused mistrials in sexual assault cases by improperly meeting with jurors
- Falling asleep at the bench
I'm surprised that she didn't force her courtroom visitors to play croquet against her and threaten decapitation for painting her roses red. This bitch is a piece of shit as a public servant, but in terms of earning rock star points for ridiculous behavior, she's a fucking champion diva. I always figured being a judge would allow you to do cool stuff like hold people in contempt of court just for being assholes and fuck hot attorneys. I never knew you could demand worship and foot massages. I should have gone to law school.
Labels: crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, legal drama, ridiculous absurdity
Some would like to see him ball and chained...
...but he's a child of God, so his destiny is ordained. Who is he, you ask? None other than the inimitable Pied Piper/R-uh/King of R&B, Mr. Showbiz himself, the certifiable World's Greatest: ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. And what destiny is ordained? A NOT GUILTY verdict.
For those of you not obsessed with all things Kells, the trial of the geological eon, Illinois vs. Robert S. Kelly, started on Friday. So far nothing terribly exciting has happened, except the selection of three jurors. Jury selection is expected to last all week. Much more important is that R. Kelly has been coming to court stuntin' with tight braids and a custom suit. And since this isn't a fiesta, nobody's saying "my, my, my, my" when they see his frozen ice, as he left the three karat diamond earrings back at the Chocolate Factory. No need to showboat at his child pornography trial, although I'm sure his player's card is tucked safely in his money clip.
Now I've been hearing a lot of talk about "he's a pedophile" and whatnot, but apart from his damning marriage to the late Aaliyah when she was 15, I don't see how anyone can come to this conclusion from viewing the tape in question. If you haven't seen it, it's easily found with some internet searching, and I recommend you watch it before you jump to any conclusions about R. Kelly's guilt or innocence. It's absolutely not clear that Kells is the man in the tape, and even though I am one of the world's biggest R. Kelly fans, I can't pick his penis out of a lineup. All I know about his dick is that strippers keep it "on swole," it's a Capricorn, and if unleashed, it will "make the room go black."
Furthermore, since the alleged victim has denied that it's her on the tape, the prosecution has no way of proving the age of the girl supposedly involved in the child porn in question. All they can prove is that some black dude banged a chick in some mountain-themed room at R. Kelly's mansion. And I have no doubt that Kells's team of attorneys will work this reasonable doubt angle successfully, even if his head attorney doesn't really have much going on in the physical intimidation department:
Don't let the Lark scooter fool you; he may look like he's on his way to Costco to stock up on Ensure and Depends, but, according to the Chicago Tribune, "Edward Genson, the so-called dean of local defense lawyers, has represented high-profile personalities such as former U.S. Rep. Mel Reynolds, former Illinois inspector general Dean Bauer and media magnate Conrad Black. The 66-year-old attorney is known for displaying a stammering, disorganized courtroom demeanor that quickly transforms into a relentless, antagonistic cross-examination of prosecution witnesses."
In other words, the esteemed counselor isn't going to let his neuromuscular condition get in the way of totally owning the prosecution. There is no way Kells is going to be convicted and sentenced to 15 years. In fact, it's probably going to be a tougher job judging the hair braiding contest currently underway at R. Kelly's official website. Once they get a jury together, this trial's going to last a week and end in a verdict of "not guilty, y'all gots to feel me." He's going to be popping bottles of Cris with mamas to celebrate the release of TP Fourth Quarter this summer, a free man. Trust this.
Labels: armchair barristry, crime and punishment, legal drama, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Jenna Bush Hager
DOB: November 25, 1981
Occupation: presidential daughter, fug piece of trash bride
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Current residence: some honeymoon suite telling her fugly husband that she has a headache and taking a Xanax
Douchebaggery: BREAKING FUCKING NEWS! Jenna Bush got married! Please, news media, cover it more, because God knows I'm insanely interested that Dubya danced oafishly to "You Are So Beautiful" or that Jenna was wearing the fugliest gown in the history of Oscar de la Renta's design house. Seriously, her dress looked like something I should my great-grandmother would have made during the Depression from scraps of old tablecloths. I want to spread out her gown on a tacky-ass end table and place a Precious Moments figurine on it. The would go perfect with the Kristen Bell-meets-Elisabeth Hasselbeck-with-fetal alcohol syndrome look the bride decided on with regard to her personal styling.
Even more butt than the gown or the bride wearing it is the groom.
I would think that being both a reputed party girl--what with her illicit margarita all those years ago--and the daughter of the President would ensure Jenna selecting the Skull and Bones future evil rich guy of her choice, and specifically one who didn't look like a lazy-eyed yokel confused about which shoe goes on which foot. Either Henry has a phenomenal personality, or she wanted to marry a man who reminded her of her dear old dad. I get the feeling it's the latter. He seems like the type who says he's from "Vuh-jin-ya" and guffaws a lot, particularly in inappropriate situations.
In any event, when it comes to Jenna's wedding, I say a big fat "WHO GIVES A FUCK?" The only people who care are the 200 or so dipshits that actually attended, and those are probably Bush's only remaining supporters. Well, Bush's only remaining supporters with any money...last I checked, half my dad's sisters (including my dear old Aunt Jesus) weren't invited. It's just a fugly rich girl marrying a fugly rich ex-Karl Rove staffer, and I've got better things to do than care.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, holy fucking matrimony, politics, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Bermuda Triangle
Name: the Bermuda Triangle
DOB: according to Wikipedia, it was first noticed by Christopher Columbus in 1492 when he sailed the ocean blue, but first called that on September 16, 1950 in some AP wire stories
Occupation: being one of the world's most non-mysterious mysteries
Hometown: it varies by author, but it can be as narrow as the points between Miami, the Bahamas, and Bermuda, or as wide as including half the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico
Current residence: it still varies by author
After a brief study of Wikipedia, I decided the Bermuda Triangle has the best fake-me-out PR in the world. The Bermuda Triangle is an ill-defined area where a series of shipwrecks happened (probably because of hurricanes, piracy, or shoddy piloting/navigating skills) before we had the National Weather Service. There are countless shows and books about the Bermuda Triangle, and losers with nothing better to do have posited (and successfully sold) all sorts of theories for these "mysterious" disappearences and whatnot. A quick trip to Wikipedia will inform a reasonable reader that most of the so-called "mysteries" of the Bermuda Triangle are made up, heavily embellished in the enigmatic department, and or have a logical explanation that has been conveniently ignored in various analyses of the Triangle legend. In other words, at some point people realized that there was money to be had if the normal travel disasters occurring in a heavily trafficked region of the Atlantic ocean were dressed in the trappings of mystery and weirdness.
The Bermuda Triangle mystique is so profitable that OTHER "Triangles" have sprung up (ie: the treacherous Michigan Triangle), all of them in major shipping lanes bound to have a high number of sinking ships by virtue of all the traffic they get. These competing Triangles don't have the number of books or Discovery channel specials or crappy SciFi movies made about them as the Bermuda, but presumably they're hoping to expand their brand accordingly.
So kudos, Bermuda Triangle. Heidi Montag should call your people, because you are truly the greatest made-up bullshit villain in history.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, international intrigue