Monday, June 30, 2008
Post-party depression
I just spent the last two hours trying desperately to type something coherent about Pride, but unfortunately this just wasn't working. I barely managed to type two shoddy paragraphs but alas, I think I might still be drunk. All weekend I probably got a total of five hours sleep. I planned to leave Pride at a reasonable hour yesterday, but then I met this cute bisexual chick who invited me to an orgy, which I had to decline because Twathopper's drunk self was starting to work herself into a gloomy lesbian fugue state. I wound up taking her home to cheer her up with pizza, Miller Lite, and a few well-placed episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210," and while maybe it would have been more impressive to end Pride by participating in an orgy with cute bisexual chicks, I wouldn't be any kind of decent lesbian mentor (or decent friend, for that matter), if I didn't take care of my girl in her time of need. Therefore, I was up late drinking after spending approximately the last 48 hours drinking, and now my elderly almost-thirty-year-old ass is paying the price. In fact, I tried to take a picture of my tits as a substitute for any real content and I couldn't even manage that.
Yeah...I'm a mess. Not even a hot mess, but just a straight-up MESS this morning. I look and feel completely and utterly busted. In fact, I'm physically busted. On Saturday, I ran out of lab through a torrential rainstorm and bit it on the stairs coming out of the building where I work. Luckily my ample (hot) ass cushioned my fall somewhat, but now the aforementioned hot ass is a battered shitshow:
Therefore, I'm going to quit before I get even further behind. Tomorrow I should have gotten my shit together enough to resume my routine of useless bullshittery, but for now I'm just going to pull the old shameless trick of posting links to useless bullshit I wrote before, but you should go ahead and read again. In the spirit of Pride, the theme will be TOTALLY LESBISH!
Building a mystery: I still haven't found this missing vibrator. As an added bonus, there's a whole tangent about how I'm not really bisexual. Obviously I got over that big case of denial.
Three's company: Threesomes are for winners. Trust this.
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat: Note that, based on her Smith College hat, I diagnosed Lindsay Lohan with a case of the carpet munching OVER A YEAR AGO. Yes, you heard it here first!
More slutty lesbian beauty queens!: I'd be way more into the pageant circuit if these bitches actually did more drunken girl-on-girl
Rosie, leave the FUCKING LESBIANS out of it!: Rosie O'Donnell sucks and is a blight on the good name of muff divers everywhere
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dani from "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila": Some love for every androgyny-loving lipstick lezzie I know
Help out with my strap-on: Thanks to all your helpful advice, I finally did learn how to bang a broad doggystyle
Daily Douchebag: Gayelle: The dumbest new way of saying "lesbian" ever
I'm kind of a lesbian: Bisexuality is confusing
The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies Night: Lesbian parties are SOOOOO lame
Daily Douchebag: Rumors that I've gone totally gayelle: Never fear, fellas...I haven't lost my appetite for kielbasa
Lesbian riot! Go Pioneers!: Oh, those predictably enraged Smith girls.
Daily Douchebag: shrinks: According to my ex-shrink, I'm a tranny!
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, lezbollah, Razzification
Friday, June 27, 2008
LESBIANS, START YOUR VAGINAS!
This weekend is Pride, bitches! I'm especially glad Pride is coming up, because there's no better way to put a spring in your step after a dude treats you shabbily than to go bang a hotter chick than he could ever score (excepting self). Pride is the best pickings in the city, because EVERY lesbian worth her Georgia O'Keefe lilies shows up there. Hell, every gay person goes! The last time I was at Pride a couple years back, I totally flirted with some cute chicks, although then I wasn't yet remembering how fun it is to fuck girls, so I didn't take any action. Now, I'm ready to chat up some chicks and hopefully do what my friends refer to as "L'ing P," our shorthand for "licking pussy." Furthermore, it provides an excellent opportunity for Twathopper, my lesbian apprentice, to find a companion for the Teagan and Sara concert she really wants to attend with a date. Twathopper was a little gloomy about her prospects, so in a super-hot, all-girl, three-way Gchat, JerseyGirl and I doubled up to give her some confidence:
Unfortunately, apart from her lone evening of drunken passion, Twathopper's track record is not so great. She's dated a host of the most ridiculous bitches ever, although part of the problem is the fact that she dug up these obnoxious broads on Nerve.com. First there was Writersprout, a cupcake-loving open mic aficionado who sublets for fun and writes the world's most infinitely boring blog. Then, there was Sarah Babysits, a girl who babysits for a living and who actually faked a rare bone cancer to poke at Twathopper's soft spot for the sick and wounded. This was after she faked a dog bite to cover up a missed "text date" (shaking my head) due to a Vicodin coma. In response, JerseyGirl got hold of Twathopper's phone and texted back "did the dog eat your homework, too?", and Sarah Babysits was so stupid that she actually thought this was flirtatious. When Twathopper dumped her on account of "you need to focus on recovering from the rare Ewing's sarcoma you have, especially since you're being inexplicably treated for it by a gastroenterologist," Sarah Babysits experienced an almost instantaneous remission of her malignancy. Twathopper finally stopped responding to her texts after that. I can hardly blame her, because after months of talking and texting and processing, the thing these bitches had in common beside being incredibly lame is their seeming unwillingness to go further than second base. Twathopper had to get these hoes completely wasted to even be permitted a stray grasp of a shirt-covered breast.
Finally, there was Superlez, and this bitch is a piece of work. On their first date, within five minutes of sitting down with their drinks Superlez informed Twathopper that she'd "never been penetrated by a man." Then, after interrogating Twathopper on her experience or lack thereof, Superlez condescendingly asked her, "Do you have any questions about the community?" I don't recall appointing Superlez spokesperson for every chick who bangs chicks, and I frankly don't want some sort of vagina snob who obviously looks down her nose at bisexuals acting like the orientation supervisor for the girl-on-girl circuit. Twathopper was like, "What community? Lesbians? No!" Frankly, the only question Twathopper ever had about "the community" was "why don't any of these girls ever have sex?" Furthermore, any future questions could be undoubtedly directed toward one of the horde of Smith College graduates Twathopper rolls with. Then Twathopper mentioned that she has lots of straight friends, so Superlez informed her that "you're going to start resenting your hetero friends and their hetero ideals." Hopefully for JerseyGirl's sake, that prediction won't come true. I guess I'm in the clear since Superlez never cast any warnings about resenting friends for their bisexual ideals. I told Twathopper that she should throw that uppity dyke back to the online dating cesspool she pulled her out of, but as usual, she did not heed my advice.
My anti-Superlez stance softened a little when I learned that Twathopper got some finger action from her, and I figured that while she may be obnoxious, maybe she would at least get my apprentice over the figurative hump. Unfortunately, Superlez then decided their bedroom antics were going to plateau there, because she apparently has fewer lesbian skills than I had at 15. I mean, I wrote some appalling poetry back then, but it only took me about a week or two to graduate to L'ing P once we got the fingerbanging routine down. Instead of progressing sexually, Superlez stalled via completely sexless phone sex which Twathopper described as "telling me how hot I was" and "what she liked about me." I am not at all surprised that is an accurate description of lesbian phone sex. I bet that segued into an incredibly sexy description of all the boobmashing they could do. She also did a lot of sexless dirty talk that Twathopper did not appreciate, such as strange routines involving baby talked references to nursing to precede some breast suckling. GROSS. After all this hassle and for all her talk about being the biggest dyke at the sushi bar, Superlez still never went downtown, so Twathopper finally cut her loose.
However, she did not stop stalking Superlez via social networking sites, and yesterday sent me her MySpace page. Twathopper made me swear to the Goddess that I would not post a link to it (although I DESPERATELY wish I could), so I will just have to describe what to me looked like a bullet safely dodged. After squinting to read anything beyond Superlez's annoying profile wallpaper of a group of lesbians white-water rafting, I noticed that her sole interest was under (of course) music, and seemed to be limited to some Lisa Loeb wannabe named Ingrid Michaelson who Wikipedia describes as an "indie-pop singer/songwriter" and is "most notably" famous for having contributed 6 songs on the "Gray's Anatomy" soundtrack. She also counts Marlee Matlin among her "Top Friends," because like every predictable-ass pushy lesbo, Superlez loves "The L Word." She also probably has a crushing handshake and a collection of Dar Williams CDs. Other than that, Superlez just exhibits about fifty million pictures of either herself looking mysterious, or herself posing in various Brooklyn establishments with her new girlfriend who is CLEARLY a Nerve.com find judging by her mousy hipster appearance. She also seems to think that, despite her butt girlfriend, she's still quite the lothario as evidenced by her continued attempts to IM and text flirtatiously with Twathopper. IF ONLY I could post her picture and proceed to–in the words of Lil' Wayne–cool her ass down if she thinks she's hot shit, because while she isn't bad looking, the sheer volume of ridiculous brooding, contrived self-portraits make her as unattractive as her personality does within five minutes of meeting this silly twat.
Anyway, with such a dismal history of dating, I am pretty sure that Twathopper can't do any worse at Pride this weekend than the prostitutes she's already wasted ample time on. I'm sure we can find a slightly better broad than the extracurricular subletters, cancer fakers, and bossy self-appointed lesbian ambassadors she's been messing with. Surely we can find her some nice, normal Tori Amos fan for her to swap Lilith Fair stories with, commence cohabitation, and celebrate their love with a romantic Teagan and Sara concert.
JerseyGirl: Twathopper, tegan and sarah are coming to nyc in octoberNeedless to say, Twathopper's pessimism about her prospects are misguided. However, I can completely understand where her negative energy is coming from. While our previous foray into the lesbian bar scene turned into an escape mission to free me from the clutches of a highly aggressive, Jamba Juice-giftcard toting bulldyke named Blu rather than the sex Twathopper was hoping for, she did manage to finally earn her stripes and L some P. I'm sure she did a great job thanks to my excellent coaching. Now that she's done it once, she wants to do it some more, preferably after listening to some live introspective female singer/songwriters perform their acoustic harmonies.
JerseyGirl: maybe you should buy two tickets, proactively so that you can take a solstice with you
JerseyGirl: oh and actually sigur ros is coming to nyc too
Twathopper: i know about both
Razzy: call me when kells is swinging back this way
Razzy: dude jerseygirl, twathopper probs reads all the music ZINES that tell her these things
Twathopper: hahaha lol ZINES
JerseyGirl: twathopper, i think you should definitely buy 2 tix to tegan and sara
Twathopper: hahahaha
Razzy: yeah cereally
JerseyGirl: buy it and then you can take whatever solstice you are dating at the time
Twathopper: F you jerseygirl!
Razzy: the pussy will be eating out of your pants for those tix
Razzy: from now on you're going to get some decent snatch if it kills me
Razzy: we're gonna find you a GF at pride this weekend
Razzy: TRUST
Razzy: get tix to this show
Razzy: and find some hot twat at pride to squire along with you
Twathopper: let's find the ho first
Twathopper: then get the tix
Razzy: well when do the tix go on sale?
Razzy: if we pull a nice tuna out of the tank at pride for you
Razzy: you'll be living together by next week
Razzy: so problem solved
Razzy: i know how you solstae roll
Twathopper: hahahah lol
Razzy: in fact, you should rent the uhaul now
Twathopper: well i hope it's better than what i saw last year
Razzy: what, at pride?
Twathopper: which was a bunch of old dykes on bikes
Twathopper: and butches everywhere
Razzy: dude every queer in the city comes out for pride!
Razzy: see all the normal-looking girls mixed in with all the crusties?
Razzy: THOSE ARE THE NORMAL LESBIANS
JerseyGirl: i cannot wait to hear stories about l'ing p from bitches you met at pride
Twathopper: oh like me walking around
JerseyGirl: :P
JerseyGirl: haha that's the l p icon
Twathopper: what will i be doing then?
Twathopper: talkin to some chick about tori and live music probz
Razzy: talking to some girl about live music
Razzy: LOL
Twathopper: haha omg!
Razzy: well that'll work
Razzy: you're looking for a keeper
JerseyGirl: omg you guys are in solstice sync
Razzy: with the ladies, i'm all catch-and-release
Razzy: you get in the door, twathopz
Razzy: i get in the pants
Razzy: perf
Unfortunately, apart from her lone evening of drunken passion, Twathopper's track record is not so great. She's dated a host of the most ridiculous bitches ever, although part of the problem is the fact that she dug up these obnoxious broads on Nerve.com. First there was Writersprout, a cupcake-loving open mic aficionado who sublets for fun and writes the world's most infinitely boring blog. Then, there was Sarah Babysits, a girl who babysits for a living and who actually faked a rare bone cancer to poke at Twathopper's soft spot for the sick and wounded. This was after she faked a dog bite to cover up a missed "text date" (shaking my head) due to a Vicodin coma. In response, JerseyGirl got hold of Twathopper's phone and texted back "did the dog eat your homework, too?", and Sarah Babysits was so stupid that she actually thought this was flirtatious. When Twathopper dumped her on account of "you need to focus on recovering from the rare Ewing's sarcoma you have, especially since you're being inexplicably treated for it by a gastroenterologist," Sarah Babysits experienced an almost instantaneous remission of her malignancy. Twathopper finally stopped responding to her texts after that. I can hardly blame her, because after months of talking and texting and processing, the thing these bitches had in common beside being incredibly lame is their seeming unwillingness to go further than second base. Twathopper had to get these hoes completely wasted to even be permitted a stray grasp of a shirt-covered breast.
Finally, there was Superlez, and this bitch is a piece of work. On their first date, within five minutes of sitting down with their drinks Superlez informed Twathopper that she'd "never been penetrated by a man." Then, after interrogating Twathopper on her experience or lack thereof, Superlez condescendingly asked her, "Do you have any questions about the community?" I don't recall appointing Superlez spokesperson for every chick who bangs chicks, and I frankly don't want some sort of vagina snob who obviously looks down her nose at bisexuals acting like the orientation supervisor for the girl-on-girl circuit. Twathopper was like, "What community? Lesbians? No!" Frankly, the only question Twathopper ever had about "the community" was "why don't any of these girls ever have sex?" Furthermore, any future questions could be undoubtedly directed toward one of the horde of Smith College graduates Twathopper rolls with. Then Twathopper mentioned that she has lots of straight friends, so Superlez informed her that "you're going to start resenting your hetero friends and their hetero ideals." Hopefully for JerseyGirl's sake, that prediction won't come true. I guess I'm in the clear since Superlez never cast any warnings about resenting friends for their bisexual ideals. I told Twathopper that she should throw that uppity dyke back to the online dating cesspool she pulled her out of, but as usual, she did not heed my advice.
My anti-Superlez stance softened a little when I learned that Twathopper got some finger action from her, and I figured that while she may be obnoxious, maybe she would at least get my apprentice over the figurative hump. Unfortunately, Superlez then decided their bedroom antics were going to plateau there, because she apparently has fewer lesbian skills than I had at 15. I mean, I wrote some appalling poetry back then, but it only took me about a week or two to graduate to L'ing P once we got the fingerbanging routine down. Instead of progressing sexually, Superlez stalled via completely sexless phone sex which Twathopper described as "telling me how hot I was" and "what she liked about me." I am not at all surprised that is an accurate description of lesbian phone sex. I bet that segued into an incredibly sexy description of all the boobmashing they could do. She also did a lot of sexless dirty talk that Twathopper did not appreciate, such as strange routines involving baby talked references to nursing to precede some breast suckling. GROSS. After all this hassle and for all her talk about being the biggest dyke at the sushi bar, Superlez still never went downtown, so Twathopper finally cut her loose.
However, she did not stop stalking Superlez via social networking sites, and yesterday sent me her MySpace page. Twathopper made me swear to the Goddess that I would not post a link to it (although I DESPERATELY wish I could), so I will just have to describe what to me looked like a bullet safely dodged. After squinting to read anything beyond Superlez's annoying profile wallpaper of a group of lesbians white-water rafting, I noticed that her sole interest was under (of course) music, and seemed to be limited to some Lisa Loeb wannabe named Ingrid Michaelson who Wikipedia describes as an "indie-pop singer/songwriter" and is "most notably" famous for having contributed 6 songs on the "Gray's Anatomy" soundtrack. She also counts Marlee Matlin among her "Top Friends," because like every predictable-ass pushy lesbo, Superlez loves "The L Word." She also probably has a crushing handshake and a collection of Dar Williams CDs. Other than that, Superlez just exhibits about fifty million pictures of either herself looking mysterious, or herself posing in various Brooklyn establishments with her new girlfriend who is CLEARLY a Nerve.com find judging by her mousy hipster appearance. She also seems to think that, despite her butt girlfriend, she's still quite the lothario as evidenced by her continued attempts to IM and text flirtatiously with Twathopper. IF ONLY I could post her picture and proceed to–in the words of Lil' Wayne–cool her ass down if she thinks she's hot shit, because while she isn't bad looking, the sheer volume of ridiculous brooding, contrived self-portraits make her as unattractive as her personality does within five minutes of meeting this silly twat.
Anyway, with such a dismal history of dating, I am pretty sure that Twathopper can't do any worse at Pride this weekend than the prostitutes she's already wasted ample time on. I'm sure we can find a slightly better broad than the extracurricular subletters, cancer fakers, and bossy self-appointed lesbian ambassadors she's been messing with. Surely we can find her some nice, normal Tori Amos fan for her to swap Lilith Fair stories with, commence cohabitation, and celebrate their love with a romantic Teagan and Sara concert.
Labels: JerseyGirl, lezbollah, sex, sluts, Twathopper
Daily Douchebag: feeling bad
DOB: the dawn of humanity
Occupation: interfering with my Razzified life
Hometown: deep down inside
Current residence: ubiquitous
Douchebaggery: I've decided that one day was enough time to wallow in my abortion-related depression. Sitting around thinking about how bad you feel is not useful or healthy, and I hate it. Therefore, I limited myself to 24 hours of sitting around feeling sad. As of today, I'm patching up the holes in the levee holding back my Catholic guilt, self-loathing, and general woundedness, giving all of the above the finger, and going back to my normal routine of hating on idiots, getting laid, and being totally awesome in every way. Being sad and depressed totally sucks, and there's no sense sitting around being slowly suffocated when I could reclaim the self that I love. Next week is my friend Wmania's bachelorette party and wedding shower, and I plan to get seriously Razzified for several days (translation: really drunk, hopefully laid, and almost certainly photographed showing my tits and acting the fool with my bitches Wmania, LL Cool Jew, FalloniusMonk, Motherbucker, and ElCyd) in our nation's capital and save the sadness for my shrink. As FalloniusMonk put it, "I declare a fie on douchetardery! Fie, fie!" Depression is serious and lame, and my personal issues aren't going away, but that doesn't mean I have to let them monopolize my thoughts and crush my spirit. I am going to dust myself off and get right back into the saddle of awesomeness like the resilient, indomitable bitch I know I am. Fuck you, feeling bad!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, defiance, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my friends
DOB: various times throughout 1981
Occupation: history nerd, cable news producer, PR flunky
Hometown: San Francisco, CA; West Longbranch, NJ; Philadelphia, PA
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana and New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The last couple of days I was feeling VERY un-Razzified on account of receiving one of the most personally mean "thanks but no thanks" sentiments in history, and I actually had to do something I rarely do: call my friends for emotional support (as opposed to the normal calling my friends to plan where we are drinking/watching Bev Niner). Usually I'm the one doling out all the moral support and making jokes to add some levity to someone else's personal crisis, but I am very thankful that on the rare occasions I'm feeling acutely down and in total crybaby mode, my friends are more than willing to return the favor at their inconvenience. The other night, JerseyGirl and Twathopper both dropped work obligations to rush up to Harlem and drink some brew dogs with me. Then, after listening to me blubber about my hurt feelings and reminded me how badass I am, encourage me to perform an open mic night rendition of my appalling 15-year-old lezzie poetry.
LL Cool Jew kept me on the phone for awhile, which was very kind of her considering she's fretting deeply because her husband is in civil war-torn and journalist-hating Sri Lanka right now, and because she got into a really awful car accident the day before. LL Cool Jew was so great with the scorned woman vitriol (her response to the guy who hurt my feelings–and more specifically the manner in which he hurt my feelings– was "I WANT HIM DEAD!"), that she actually called BigBagel in Sri Lanka to tell him about it, and when she told him that the "I don't want to go out for drinks within the context of a date because you're a big slut who talks about your abortion" schtick was presented in a "for your own good" sort of way, he responded, "Does this mean I get to tell that guy a few things for his own good?" In addition to rallying her family beneath the Razzy Apologist banner, she was also super sweet. After learning about the falling death and decapitation of my beloved St. Francis of Assisi idol, she promptly went straight on to a bunch of Catholic websites and, after noting that my people have the "trinkets-for-salvation" market cornered, purchased me a replacement.
Even hard-ass bitches like myself have their weak spots. One of mine starts with "A" and rhymes with "gabortion," and to have this brought up in the context it was the other day by a person purporting to be my "friend" was a complete shock to me. I've got a pretty thick skin, but hearing someone say that you are an undesirable person because of how you deal with your life's most significant problems is crushing and horrible. Most of the time, I can say "FUCK YOU, HATER!" and give the offending party a well-deserved douchebagging. On rare circumstances, though, somebody hits a really sensitive nerve, and I turn into a sobbing, self-loathing ball of jelly. Let's face it...I don't think I'm really fooling anyone for too long with the whole "I'm Razzy and you're not, so suck it!" attitude I present to the world. As LL Cool Jew once put it, "You keep all that sweetness so hidden away, but you don't need to feel bad when some of it sneaks out!" Deep down, I'm really just an emotionally vulnerable poetry-writing girl who uses my aggressive, no-bullshit, exceedingly honest demeanor as a shield against being hurt and feeling bad. When someone actually manages to penetrate my fomidable exterior and hits a tender spot, I need strong, loving friends to lean on until I regain my "fuck you" legs. I'm really lucky to have friends like LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper (as well as MillerTime, J-Sexy, HotLawyer, and Morrissey'sHair, who have all been patient enough to listen to me bitch about this situation at one point or another), who care about me and are ready and willing to show me how much when I really need it. Thanks, you guys, for helping me get my Razzification back. I love you and you are the best.
Labels: for serious people, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Twathopper
Thursday, June 26, 2008
THE most embarrassing thing that I've ever done
Yesterday, I had one of the most upsetting instant message conversations of all time. To make a long and completely unnecessary story very short, I got a "no thanks, I'm not interested in you" in the form of talk about how my public discussion of my abortion makes this dude think I'm a totally unattractive and unlovable freak, and an itemized list of obvious problems with myself that this dude wanted no part of. Basically, it was the cruelest, most humiliating way of hearing "let's just be friends" of all time, and I was in a tremendously bad state afterwards. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been in the position where a dude just wasn't feeling me, and sure, that makes you feel bad for about a week. Your ego is wounded and that sucks, but you get over it much sooner than later, and big fucking deal. It happens, and (especially when you're a narcissist like me) you get over it. However, I've never received a comprehensive summary of the human flaws I am most sensitive about as a means of saying "I'm just not feeling a re-do of the date we had almost a year ago." All I could do while discussing this–over IM–was try to save face and seem like I was merely embarrassed rather than profoundly hurt that this person actually thought that by telling me all about EVERYTHING that is wrong with me (to the point of quoting comments on this very blog saying that I'm too much of a slut to ever find a man who isn't a freak and then adding that such commenters "have my back") would be a kindness.
While this was actually pretty awful, I naturally acted like it was no big deal, and then called my friends in tears. The reason I talk about my abortion the way I do is because it is so unbelievably painful and difficult for me to deal with that the only way I know how to cope with it is to minimize its destructive power by making flippant jokes. Horrible things lose some of their sting when you can make fun of them. Being incredibly hurt by hearing that my sole coping mechanism for dealing with the worst thing that I've ever done is at the top of the list of reasons why I'm an undesirable freak is at least something that my friends can make fun of and thus help me deal with.
A couple of my friends came to my apartment to drink beers with me and discuss how awesome I am and how, while bringing up the fact that I talk about my abortion as a negative I somehow needed to hear about might be one of the coldest things they've ever heard of, we've all put ourselves out there and gotten burned BAD. Sometimes, this burning is in the stupidest, most humiliating, most vulnerability-exploiting way, and what can you do besides try to laugh about that? Everyone was talking about the most embarrassing thing they've ever done in these situations, and who had the most predictable bullshit embarrassing bad dating moves ever? Go figure...that was strictly in the realm of lesbian stories.
Twathopper said something like, "At least you actually slept with this fuck once. And at least you didn't go give some bitch who wouldn't even fuck you their inaugural article in Runner's World framed as a gift!"
While that IS pretty lame, in fairness, Twathopper was putting up with six months of extreme mindfuckery, and she was new to the clam bake. Novice lesbians always do stupid shit like that, and I know from experience. This actually made Twathopper seem sane and normal, because memories of my incredibly annoying high school poetry-writing lesbian phase flooded in, and I was like, "I think I've actually done something even more embarrassing than that. Holy shit, I think I actually have some poetry."
I have a box of crap from yesteryear containing a bunch of random photographs and letters and that kind of thing. One of these random items was a poem I wrote on September 13, 1994 per the date stamp. "I think that myself at age 14 almost 15 was even worse," I said. It's true; I was the most RIDICULOUSLY UNCOOL, TOTALLY INSANE teenage lesbian at a Jesuit high school ever. There is nothing that will drive a highly cognitive, sexually confused pubescent girl nuts like a hefty dose of Catholic guilt and hormone-clouded thoughts of unrequited love. Poetry writing was the least of my problems. I actually did some light stalking, long letter-writing, and truck-egging (and how crazy teenage lesbian is that?) after my ex-girlfriend dumped me for this other girl in our class because she was the sole BDOC (big dyke on campus) in our high school and she basically could. Trust that I realized fifteen years ago how batshit crazy that sort of behavior is over someone not worth that much effort.
Anyway, I realized that even hearing that someone is not attracted to me because of how I've dealt with my most traumatic experience ever is nothing in terms of embarrassment when it comes to how I dealt with my high school lezzie drama. The poem I wrote is absolute proof, and it was actually educational, as I realized when I wrote this, I was still 14 and had obviously grown enamored with fucking my girlfriend. I swear it was when I was fifteen, and I remember the exact date (July 26, 1995) that I lost my virginity to a dude, but apparently I was hitting pussy when I was just 14 according to the date on the poem (*and OOPS, I was born November 17, 1978, so I was totally 15 when this was written...I just obviously suck hard at math, but I'm leaving it). That would be a lot more sexually precocious in an awesome way if it weren't for the UNBELIEVABLY LAME POETRY I WROTE! I couldn't even read this whole thing to my friends because I was so ashamed of it, and I'm certainly not printing the entire thing here now. I am probably more ashamed of this than ANYTHING I've ever done, and strictly because it's the most cloying, awful, totally pathetic teenage lesbian thing I've ever read. Here are some of the excerpts I can actually tolerate releasing to the internets-reading public, and...well, just uff da. UFF DA!
The window is cracked to our naked skin
And we would be cold but for the
Heat of the other woman's flesh.
The blankets, smell of old cigarettes, the keys
Why she loves me.
I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?! I WROTE THIS?!?!?! If I didn't know how incredibly psychotic and overwhelmingly lame I was as an insane faux-suicidal lesbian teenager, I wouldn't believe it myself. And it gets worse.
The act of marriage, sacred and unholy still
With another woman it is just dirt
White dirt and I know God is getting off
On it, that love I feel when her
Skin is plastered to mine with the
Exertion of what she gives for me
I may have had some sick Catholic issues and been in the midst of a sexuality crisis, but on the bright side, at least I was having apparently extremely hot lesbian sex (and by that, I mean mostly boobmashing with a sprinkle of clumsy fingerbanging and labia kissing). "Skin plastered to mine" and "Exertion of what she gives for me"? That sounds to me like some seriously sexy girl-on-girl, but this was obviously spoken by someone who was having sex for the first time. Now that I've had a considerable amount of experience on top of that, I recall that this bitch had no tits, and was constantly complaining that I wasn't hitting the right spot. Give me a break, I didn't even discover my own G-spot until I started fucking boys, and that was totally by accident. At least she apparently got the job done for me. ANYWAY! Back to the horrendous poetry. It really does make me feel better to take the worst times of my life and rag on them hard. How can I really take stuff like this seriously? I certainly cannot take it with the life-or-death gravity as I did when I wrote it.
And masked bitter envy in a cloak of
False and prefabricated guilt.
This is the tree of life up here
Hidden in the outdated closets and faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out of the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.
Okay, now I am sufficiently embarrassed by this TOTAL doggerel (and yes, I know this particular poem doesn't rhyme and thus technically doesn't qualify as "doggerel," but I can't think of a better word that means "shitty fucking poetry") that I can't continue with the excerpts. This is truly the most horrifyingly shameful thing I've ever committed to paper, and while I'm mortified that I brought this into the world at all, I'm glad that I did for personal self-esteem reasons. From now on, every time I make some incredibly dumbass girl move and get emotionally bitch-slapped for it, I can just pick my original copy of "Forbidden" out of my "old shit" box and remind myself how much crazier I was fifteen years ago, and how I'm SO much better than all of that now. Lord knows my sex life with the ladies these days is a hell of a lot more Strap it On 5 than "God, she's so pretty," and there's certainly nothing I can do or say to any of my sexual partners that's crazier or more horribly shameful than what I wrote in 1994.
In the midst of an extremely hearty laugh, JerseyGirl was like, "Razzy, that poem really is cereally one of the most straight-up renarded things I've ever heard." Truly. And when things like this come up, where I am faced with the consequences of writing extremely personal, touchy things on the internets and having somebody misinterpret the kind of human being I am at my deep expense as a result, I can always rely on the fact that no matter what I do as an adult trying to deal with the complicated issues of life the best way I can, I'm never going to be as "cereally renarded" as I was when I was 14. And actually, that is greatly comforting. It's a huge relief to know that the lamest thing I've ever done has nothing to do with heavy shit like how I deal with my abortion and how other people respond to it. For the first time ever...thank you, inner poetry-writing retarded-ass lesbian. Thank you so fucking much.
Labels: crazies, for serious people, JerseyGirl, lezbollah, oh the horror, Razzification, Twathopper
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: nobody
So I'm in the midst of a rough patch, and while I'll probably be back to my old self by tomorrow, today I am just really not in the mood to hit anyone, unless you mean in the sense of punching them in the face. I am rarely as emotionally shaken up as I was yesterday, and without going into it too much, I am just not up to my usual standards. So rest assured I'll be back in better form tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll put up some lesbian poetry to mock and a better explanation of why I'm such a negative nancy today.
XOBJBS and thanks for understanding,
Razzy
Labels: excuses, for serious people, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: gravity
Name: gravity
DOB: the beginning of time, although I guess we didn't really all get it until Sir Isaac Newton dropped Principia in 1687
Occupation: ruining my statuary
Hometown: I don't think gravity actually has a hometown
Current residence: wreaking havoc in my apartment
Douchebaggery: Yesterday was one of the roughest days I've had in quite some time and the last thing I need are other bullshit things happening to make me feel worse. However, nonetheless dumb stupid dumb gravity decided to take the opportunity to kick me while I'm down. I've always hated gravity. Granted, I like the fact that gravity exists and makes life on earth possible, but otherwise it can lick my twat. Back in college, my advisor made me take physics as she was grooming me for the illustrious career in biomedical research I have today and this somehow might be useful. Too bad not only has physics proved entirely useless to me as a grad student, but even then I questioned its value. I took physics my senior year, and Smith's class was not only calculus-based bullshit at 9 a.m., but it was one of those classes where they don't just say something like "Newton's second law is F=ma, now here's some problems to do." They instead give you the problems first and expect you to deduce Newton's laws yourself. Needless to say, I considered my alternate morning routine of waking up, watching last night's SportsCenter while fucking my boyfriend, then kissing him goodbye, taking bong hits, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210" reruns instead of class was a much better use of my time than doing a bunch of roundabout math to accomplish what Sir Isaac Newton did years before. My regular class-skipping turned out really badly when I ended up taking one test that involved three-dimensional vector calculus and I had no fucking clue how to do that. It was literally the only time I've ever stared down at a test and had no idea whatsoever how to even give the appearance of comprehending the material. That physics class represents the only D I've ever gotten in my academic career, and I don't regret it one bit, because I think I got way more benefit from having morning sex and watching Bev Niner than learning math that I'm never, EVER going to have to do as a microbiologist.
Anyway, I thought my days of even thinking about gravity were long past until this morning. After a few hours of fitful drunk sleep, I woke up and went to go to the bathroom. I felt something sharp in my foot. "Ouch! FUCK!" Then I looked down to see that I stepped on a piece of broken glass, and there were similar pieces of glass everywhere. It wasn't the glass you would normally expect to see either (ie: from a Heineken bottle); it was ceramic. "What the...?" I said, then my eyes traveled to a dreadful sight: the dismembered, headless torso of St. Francis of Assisi. The little shelf St. Francis was sitting on above a doorframe came loose, and thus at some point it all crashed to the floor. Much like almost all of the super Catholic shit that makes an integral part of my apartment's decor, my statue of St. Francis belonged to my grandmother, and he is a saint that I feel particularly close to. For one thing, he is the patron saint of animals, and I liked the idea of St. Francis sitting around keeping an eye on Caese and Chingy! while I'm not home. For another, if you ask my Protestant aunts, we Catholics are big on the idol-worshipping. While technically I don't WORSHIP St. Francis so much as ask him to intercede with Josh Christ on my behalf, nonetheless having one of my household gods smashed by evil gravity is not a great way to start the day. I picked up all the bigger pieces (including the one I pulled out of my foot) in the vain hope that I might be able to piece St. Francis back together like Humpty Dumpty, but I still can't find his head.
So thanks a lot, gravity, for shattering a graven image of a totally undeserving Catholic saint. If gravity had a soul, I think we know where it would be: in HELL!
Labels: Catholicism, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, fuck math, science
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Totally Shifty
Ok. So I was just reading this article on CNN that talks about the unveiling of plans for David Fisher's shape-shifting skyscraper in Dubai. It's called "Dynamic Tower" or something, and is being billed as "The World's First Building In Motion".
Holy Shit. So each floor will be able to rotate independently using the energy generated by wind-turbines installed in-between floors. I am not fucking kidding. You can check out an animated illustration of this amazingness here.
Pretty fucking amazing, right? Everybody else thinks so, too. So much so that the apartments within are slated to sell for $4 million to $40 million each.
But all is not totally peachy, though, as there has been some skepticism... Like, for instance, Fisher has never built a fucking skyscraper before. No lie. After he declared that his tower will "revolutionize the way skyscrapers are made", he acknowledged that he "[has] never built a skyscraper before" and "[hasn't] practiced architecture regularly in decades". But, no worries... He's got it all under control: He's hooking up with some certified architects in India and the U.K., and they're just stacking some prefab shit together anyway. So whatevs. It's cool.
Um. Who is putting up the money for this thing? I mean, it's a great idea and everything. (Ok.. It's a pretty bad-ass idea.) But, seriously, who wants to live in an oversized merry-go-round? It makes me nauseous just thinking about it. And, on a practical note, skyscrapers have their own special safety issues. Like being able to withstand windstorms and shit. Even whole architect/engineer teams that specialize in skyscrapers can overlook some grave detail. So who's the mega-rich douchebag who decided to let gramps give it a try?
Furthermore, it didn't take a whole lot of Google-searching to find out that not only is Dynamic Tower not the first rotating skyscraper in the world, it isn't even the first rotating skyscraper in Dubai ...since the rotating solar-powered Time Residencies Building will be finished the end of this year. And the Kinetic Pavilion, which allows floors to spin independently by way of wind-power, was proposed two years ago by California architect Michael Jantzen.
...Real fucking original, Dave. What's next? The world's first suspension bridge?
Labels: Ho Rofra, natural disaster, ranting
"We Can't Explain It to Children" is the new "Fuckin' Faggots"
In this day and age, homophobia is just as unpopular as being gay used to be in mainstream society. Therefore, homophobes have to resort to new and clever means of getting their bigotry out there to discriminate against gays without looking like a total asshole. The most popular means of nice-guy gay bashing seems to be "how are we going to explain that to our kids?" People saying this seem to have the attitude that children are incapable of comprehending same-sex hotness, which is simply not true. When I was a little kid, I found the whole concept of homos mysterious and fascinating. That's probably because I'm kind of gay, but I feel that even burgeoning non-bisexual skank hetero kids can handle the truth when it comes to the fact that some people are more inclined to jam with people of their own gender. Normal, decent people should be able to accept that being gay isn't a big deal and explaining that gay people exist shouldn't be any different than explaining to a kid that the sky is blue and grass is green.
However, since the types of jackasses who have some dumb reason for hating the gays (probably because they ARE gay) seem to think otherwise, this now seems to be the order of the day for infringing upon gay people's civil rights. Not too long ago, the staff at Safeco Field cracked down on hot lesbian makeout sessions at Mariners games because people couldn't explain it to their children. Honestly, if I were a parent, I'd have a much harder time explaining to my kid why I spent money on tickets to watch the shittiest team in baseball while surrounded by ushers and homophobes who, judging by their reaction to two hot lesbian strippers sucking face, obviously hate fun. Do parents feel the need to explain it to their kids when they see a heterosexual couple kissing? Hell to the no! So I can't understand why these idiots think saying "oh, my kids won't understand" is an adequate excuse for denying the queers these same rights. Their kids probably already understand, at least if, like my parents, they buy them more Barbies than Ken dolls. Half of my Barbies were sushi-suckers strictly because I was constantly suffering a severe shortage of Kens for them to make out with. Besides, kids these days are savvy, what with their Grand Theft Auto and their MyFaces and Spacebooks and iPods and the like. With internets access like kids have these days, they've probably seen hardcore anal orgies by the age of six. Kids don't have a problem with gay people having the audacity to be gay in front of them, asshole parents; YOU have a problem with it!
This trend seems to have made its way across the pond to the UK, where Heinz pulled this commercial for "deli mayo" because of the extremely G-rated man-to-man kiss at the end of it. The reason? According to the Telegraph, because it was "offensive" and "unsuitable to be seen by children," partly because of the "difficulty" parents would have explaining it to their kids.
Are you kidding? This was "offensive"? I think the concept of caramelized onion-flavored mayo is more offensive than the completely nonsexual guy-guy makeout sesh at the end of the commercial. And how is this difficult to explain? Just say, "Imagine what would happen if your mom turned into a wisecracking New York deli guy" (although in fairness, if they really wanted to capture the authentic New York deli experience, the deli guy would be a short, sweaty man from Yemen and he'd be jabbering on his cellphone earpiece in rapid Arabic rather than calling anyone "sweet cheeks"). This is not difficult to explain. What's more difficult to explain to the kids is that their parents are raging bigots who are so insecure and uncomfortable with homosexuality that they are using their children as a lame excuse because they don't have the balls to just admit that they don't approve of gay people.
Are you kidding? This was "offensive"? I think the concept of caramelized onion-flavored mayo is more offensive than the completely nonsexual guy-guy makeout sesh at the end of the commercial. And how is this difficult to explain? Just say, "Imagine what would happen if your mom turned into a wisecracking New York deli guy" (although in fairness, if they really wanted to capture the authentic New York deli experience, the deli guy would be a short, sweaty man from Yemen and he'd be jabbering on his cellphone earpiece in rapid Arabic rather than calling anyone "sweet cheeks"). This is not difficult to explain. What's more difficult to explain to the kids is that their parents are raging bigots who are so insecure and uncomfortable with homosexuality that they are using their children as a lame excuse because they don't have the balls to just admit that they don't approve of gay people.
What I'd like to know is what's coming next in this brave new world of pussified bigotry. Are people going to start saying that interracial couples shouldn't be allowed to display affection in public because they won't be able to explain it to their precious children? This is pathetic and I am offended that Heinz, Safeco Field, and whoever else are actually even listening to these homo haters, much less acquiescing to their demands. I almost prefer the days when homophobes ran about freely saying "faggot" and "dyke," since at least those pricks were up front about their views and not making halfassed excuses about their children in order to be a spiteful dick and still save face. Reverend Fred "God Hates Fags" Phelps may be insane, but at least he's honest about his hatred, which is a lot more than I can say for these "concerned parents" who attribute their homophobia to an inability to communicate with their own children. When Fred Phelps seems like a more upstanding, respectable citizen than you, that's when you've REALLY got problems. Eat some same-sex genitals, you pussy gay bashers.
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, vulgar display of faggotry
New contributor! YAY!
So you may have noticed that we are welcoming a new contributor into the fold here at RAZZY.org. Ho Rofra is my fellow sufferer in the Coordinated Doctoral Program in the Biomedical Sciences here at Columbia, my friend UnicornDick's girlfriend, and an all-around fun, funny-ass bitch. She was bored this week because UnicornDick is off at some "fantasy baseball conference," where I can only imagine he's trying to pull some egregiously wack trades with the guys in his league. He's probably trying to trade Mariners for A-Rod (and as much as I hate to bust on the Mariners or laud any Yankee, especially Alex Rodriguez, you can't say that wouldn't be a bullshit fantasy trade.) In our fantasy football league, UnicornDick was offering me a ridiculous trade every other day that always involved me giving up Ladanian Tomlinson and/or Antonio Gates for Brett Favre. Before even reviewing his trade offers I would get ready to type "SHA RIGHT." I wasn't the only one, either. All season he tried to get my buddy Neisman to trade Tom Brady, Randy Moss, and the Patriots D/ST for Favre. Ridiculous.
Anyway, since UnicornDick is off doing the baseball equivalent of that somewhere, Ho Rofra had some time on her hands to write, so I welcomed her to this elite literary collective of luminaries writing for this site. I also gave her a name: Ho Rofra, which is short for "Hotter Rosalind Franklin." If you're not a science geek, you probably have no idea who Rosalind Franklin was, but trust that at Smith College they were all over her story since she's the most burned hooker in the history of modern molecular biology. Back in the day, Rosalind was a post-doc in this guy Maurice Wilkins's lab doing X-ray diffraction of various DNA crystals. Don't ask how, because I don't know, but apparently by blasting a crystal of some molecule with X-rays and they scatter and somehow people who are better at biochemistry and math for me can look at the scatter pattern on a piece of film and deduce that molecule's structure. Well, that's what Rosalind was doing back in the fifties, and apparently she was a real drag to be around but she was the hotness when it came to crystallography. So to avoid talking to her cranky ass, James Watson and Francis Crick took a peek at some of her DNA diffraction data and saw this:
Apparently that means "double helix." In fact, the fact that that means "double helix" represents the only crystallography-type thing I know, because I've heard the story of how Watson and Crick fucked Rosalind Franklin over so many times. Again, don't ask me how this translates to "double helix," because I don't fuck with crystallography. I don't fuck around with things like "atoms" or "van der Waals forces" or any of that disturbingly math-physics-chemistry type stuff. Anyway, Watson and Crick took this and went back to their lab, where they picked up their "nitrogenous base" and "sugar backbone held together by phosphodiester bonds" puzzle set armed with this knowledge and Chargaff's rules, and came up with the structure of DNA. They rushed off a Nature paper, made one of the single most important contributions to the field of molecular biology ever, and were awarded the Nobel prize alongside Maurice Wilkins in 1962.
People at Smith used to get all hot and bothered because a woman–and a mousy, disagreeable one, no less–got screwed out of a Nobel prize, but ironically it was her own female bits that actually fucked her up. Rosalind Franklin died of ovarian cancer in 1958, and the Nobel prize isn't awarded posthumously. Watson later acknowledged that her data was essential in their discovery of DNA's structure, and that she probably would have made the trip to Stockholm with the boys club had she been alive.
So what does Rosalind Franklin have to do with Ho Rofra, you ask? Well, Ho Rofra, like Rosalind Franklin, works in a crystallography lab and I have no idea what she does. If you asked me, I'd probably just rattle off a bunch of scientastic nonsensical shit about transcription factors binding the major groove and TATA box binding protein that I vaguely remember from my first-year biochemistry class in 2003. Does it have anything to do with her project? Probably not, but like I said before, I'm not fucking with any damn diffraction patterns. Anyway, Ho Rofra is, like Rosalind Franklin, apparently really good at her job and solves crystal structures and whatever the hell else these hardcore biochemistry/biophysics types do. Except unlike Rosalind Franklin, she's actually attractive. Here's the best picture of Rosalind Franklin that's ever been taken:
Trust that Ho Rofra is WAAAAAAAAAY hotter. And she's probably funnier, too, considering I never got many chuckles out of Rosalind Franklin's Nature papers, which all have titles like "Influence of the bonding electrons on the scattering of X-rays by carbon" or "Location of the ribonucleic acid in the tobacco mosaic virus particle." So welcome to Ho Rofra! Leave her some comments!
Labels: Fantasia, grad school bullshit, Ho Rofra, nerd alert, science
(Ho Rofra's) Daily Dude I Want to Hit: The Dazzle Dancers
Name: Cherry Dazzle, Houdini Shalom Dazzle, Dazzle Dazzle, Vinnie Dazzle, DT Dazzle, Edible Dazzle, Hole Dazzle, Machine Dazzle, Prettyboy Dazzle, Chalupa Dazzle, Propecia Destiny Dazzle, Robbie Dazzle, Sochny Dazzle, Negro Noir Dazzle, Besame Dazzle, Rinky Dinky Dazzle, Chunky Cupcake Dazzle, Booty du Chef Dazzle, Smokey D Dazzle, ... + "a diverse and ever-changing membership, unified by [the] commitment to Dazzle in this often dreary world".
DOB: 1996
Occupation: dressing like American-Gladiators-Gone-Wild, hangin with celebs, saving the world
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In their own words: "The Dazzle Dancers are the ultimate party intoxicants. [They] have been known to get crowds into frenzies that haven't been seen since Greco-Roman times. [They] are that swiveling, sexy garnish that makes your event one of those nights people never forget. It's almost guaranteed that by the time [they] are done, people will be on their feet dancing, and everyone will be kind of horny."
Ok. First off, they seriously get paid for what they do. I know what you're thinking... "So do most strippers." BUT. The Dazzle Dancers aren't strippers. Their stage-presence resembles 6 a.m. at a rave party, right when your E stops working. Yet, they've shared a stage with Blondie, The Scissor Sisters, FischerSpooner, Le Tigre, Nina Hagen, Jody Watley, Princess Superstar, Laura Branigan, Kate Pierson, Sandra Berhnard, and MC Hammer. That's right. I said MC fucking Hammer.
Plus, they're super accommodating: "Upon your request, we will get naked (always a crowd pleaser) or remain respectfully in our satin thongs and just smile flirtatiously." See? When's the last time you were given that option?
But... On a serious note... The Dazzle Dancers aren't just about dancing around mostly-naked. They're about dancing around mostly-naked in pursuit of world-peace: "Our goals, however, extend beyond mere spectacle. We are committed to spreading a message of love and sexual freedom. We battle the forces of blandness, fear, and isolation so common in our clenched culture of coffee franchises, fear marketing, and money worship. All of this is accomplished through the powerful forces of dance, glitter, and fun." ...And by "fun" they mean "glitter-coated genitalia barely covered by neon animal-print fabric".
And they really totally mean it. They are seriously patriotic (see Spiderman-style picture above) and lifted our nation's spirits during a time of need: "In October 2001, we danced through the streets of downtown New York, only weeks after the September 11 attacks, to give people a sorely needed sexy smile."
So yeah... They're basically saving the world. AND with impeccable style. Even Penthouse said "they all look pretty damn amazing in their pasties and sparkles". So true.
Labels: artfaggotry, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Ho Rofra, neon, nudity, saving the world
Daily Douchebag: "A Shot At Love 2 with Tila Tequila"
DOB: April 22, 2008
Occupation: being too big of a sham dating show in the world of sham dating shows for even me to like it
Hometown: MySpace
Current residence: MTV
Douchebaggery: "A Shot at Love 2 with (fake bisexual MySpace skank) Tila Thien Than Thi Nguyen Tequila" actually has many things I should love in principle, such as softcore girl-on-girl action, catfights, guido dudes beating down dudes with frosted hair, and commercial breaks advertising CD compilations with titles like Tropical Thunder. However, Tila Tequila sucks and so does her show. I, for one, am NOT interested in a shot at love with her busted ass.
I have gotten over this in the past to enjoy many contrived reality dating shows in which a completely unattractive person sorts through a bevy of skanks to find "love." I've watched "Flavor of Love" and "Rock of Love," and I used to have a standing date with my pal JerseyGirl to watch "I Love New York" because for a while we declared that "the best reality show on television" (not to be confused with the greatest show in the history of television, which always was and always will be "Beverly Hills, 90210"). I even watched the first season of "A Shot at Love" and somewhat enjoyed it, or at least enjoyed discussing Dani the firefighter with all my lesbo friends. However, after watching about 5 minutes of the show last night, I've come to realize that I actually LOATHE this show, and Tila Tequila is the least likable would-be paramour in the history of reality dating shows. I've come up with several reasons:
1. Tila Tequila looks like the kind of woman whose vagina secretes battery acid. Not to say that I'm not a total ho-bag myself, but compared to Tila, I seem like a sophisticated lady. I would never wear a midriff-baring plaid stripper costume to meet my boyfriend/girlfriend's parents, nor would I give said love interest's grandmother a lap dance to warm her up to the idea of bisexuality. Any chick who would displays poor judgment, and I can only assume that judgment applies to maintenance of her cooch. I may be a slut, but I am for the most part pretty good about condom use these days and I also get my shit checked out regularly to ensure that I remain, in Lil' Kim's estimation, "a disease-free bitch." I don't trust that Tila has been so judicious with regards to maintaining her own snatch, and not only do I have zero desire to wind up on a lifelong Valtrex regimen, I have zero desire the go anywhere near a vagina that may well have actual teeth.
2. Tila Tequila is disingenuous and has a tremendously inflated opinion of herself. She's not gay, she LOVES to make herself out like the world's busiest A-list celebrity when in truth she's a fake-titted whore who looks like some sort of bizarre amalgam of a Hello Kitty doll and a beat-down hooker working the track. Tila acts like her ideal boy/girlfriend would be able to "handle" Tila's extreme schedule of media whoring and writhing around for the cover of various car magazines marketed to dudes with small penises (TRUST...if your boyfriend is all into spoilers and engines and ground effects and customized car shit like that, RUN don't walk, because he's packing a chapstick). In fact, if you go to the "A Shot at Love 2" Wikipedia page, you will notice that some of the reasons she eliminated contestants include things like "creeped her out by 'doing too much research on the internet' on her" and "was too much of a stalker." While I can attest that when someone does too much research on the internets on me is indeed a huge turn-off, I also have to say to Tila that it comes with the fucking territory when you are an omega-list internet celebrity. If I write about my life on the internets, then it's a given that I'm going to field a few e-mails from random people talking to me like they've known me for years, or looking up my Facebook/MySpace pages, or whatever else. Tila should know, since she's in the real alphabet of internet celebrity what with all those millions of MySpace friends. She's at least an F-list internet celebrity, so she needs to stop getting surprised or shocked when the people on her dating show actually have the audacity to read the personal information about her that she's worked so hard to get online.
3. Tila Tequila actually requires these hoes to "fall in love" with her to continue having a shot at getting into her herpetic pants. I fail to see the inherent love-creating properties of activities that resemble an episode of "Double Dare" meets "Fear Factor" populated by people who all have at least one "Girls Gone Wild" credential on their CVs, and it's amazing to me that anyone could find true love amid such a shitshow. I suppose another thing complicating Tila's ability to fall in love with the ladies is the fact that she's NOT EVEN GAY! I'd wager my left ovary that if Tila's ever dined on tuna tacos, it's because her boyfriend asked her to. I'd wager my right ovary, though, that Tila has never been to a clam bake, because she realized long ago that merely kissing girls gets her a lot of attention from dudes, and why bother being a big lez in the bedroom when you can just fake it convincingly for the benefit of MySpace and MTV's audience! What does that leave us with? I have a full set of ovaries and every bitch on "A Shot at Love" has been played for a fool. Fall in love. Sha right, Tila Tequila!
4. Tila Tequila has no talent. In spite of Tila saying that she only likes go-getters who have actual careers and taking credit for the legalization of gay marriage in California, the only thing Tila has ACTUALLY done is showcase her attention whoring skills. After proving that she's the biggest hooker-ass prosty in the world of social networking, she's managed to bring her wardrobe fresh off the Rave clearance rack and her genital lesions to the small screen and that's IT! She doesn't act, sing, dance, write, or do anything that could actually be considered a job, unless you count modeling for jerk-off calendars marketed toward The Fast and the Furious set a career. Again, I know I'm a big hooker-ass prosty for internets attention as well, but at least I have a day job, and I could convince anyone who isn't a grad student that this job is somewhat useful to my fellow man. What the fuck does Tila do besides show us all what a cut-rate breast aug she got in a wardrobe of Forever 21 stripper clothes whenever possible?
5. Seriously, does ANYONE want to fuck Tila Tequila besides losers who believe 9/11 conspiracies and spend all day on MySpace wanking it and sending me messages like "hai hoynee wana chat my aim is polerigger420 holer at me kewtie pi!!!!!" and "dam ur sexiee gurl! u gota mann?" and the more rare but nonetheless extant "u lik girls? cal me i lik girls 2"? NO! I wouldn't fuck Tila Tequila and I'm a skank-ass ho myself. Usually I wouldn't pass up a hot chick in the mood for some oysters on the half shell, but I'd rather fuck Paris Hilton than Tila Tequila for public health reasons alone, which is a sad statement indeed. Luckily for the female contestants, Tila Tequila isn't really gay and isn't going to give them molluscum contagiosum or any of those weird lesbian STDs. Not as lucky for the girls and the guys is the fact that you can get herpes by kissing.
I pray that Tila finds love this time around, because I'm not sure I can stand another season of faux bisexuality and shockingly arrogant retardation as only Tila Tequila can serve up. If she doesn't, I might start thinking I'm too old for MTV, and that will mean giving up incredibly deep, painstakingly produced, tightly scripted productions of high art like "The Hills"! That can't happen, so MTV needs to tell Tila next time around that her shots at love have run the fuck out.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, media whores, MySpace, sluts, TV
Watch the eyes
In a week or so, I'm going to be attending an event (read: bachelorette party) where there will most likely be a professional male entertainer who specializes in taking off his clothes. LL Cool Jew told me the other day that she had never seen a male stripper before, and I reminded her that she had once before at Senior Banquet, a Smith event in which the graduating seniors get the underclassWOmen of Jordan House drunk and "will" them crap they want to part with.
"At my Senior Banquet at Smith! Remember? I know you were there...I willed you my Dr. Dre poster!"
"Uh, I remember going to your Senior Banquet. I don't remember a stripper there."
"Dude, the Jordan underclassbitches totally hired one for us! He came in dressed as a cop and then proceeded to wag his smiley-face banana hammock in all our faces!"
"I still don't remember that," LL Cool Jew said.
"Yes! And then, do you remember that shitty bar in Leeds or wherever called The Office? Well, the stripper came there with us afterward, and then Martindale brought him back to Jordan and fucked him!"
"How do I not remember that?" LL Cool Jew wondered.
I then took it upon myself to explain to LL Cool Jew what it's like witnessing a male stripper in action: BORING. Male strippers never take it all off. While LL Cool Jew pointed out that many female strippers keep their bottoms on too, they at least have tits. I could care less about some pretty boy guido's muscle definition. Sure, I might say, "He's got a hot body," but after about 30 seconds of lame gyrating I'm going to get bored without seeing some weiner. I mentioned that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in which we had that bitch in the private party room at Scores literally drowning in lady strippers, was going to go down in history as being WAY better in the nudity department than this upcoming shindig because male strippers are by definition sort of boring.
Anyway, I did a little research about male strippers, and I concluded that some of them may actually take it all off. For a moment, I felt cheered up. However, then I went to see what was going on in the world of internets celebrity gossip, and came upon a disturbing anecdotal tale. I'm now a little nervous after hearing this story courtesy of Michael K. at Dlisted:
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
This just validates my view that male strippers are far more loathsome than their female counterparts. I have enough trouble with guys and my eyes as it is. One time a dude shot his load on my face and hit me in the eye, and it felt like my contact got soaked in liquid fire. You wouldn't think that shit would sting so bad, but then again, semen is at a pretty alkaline pH to counteract the acidic environment of the vagina and maximize sperm survival, so I guess it can really fuck up a pH neutral mucosal surface like the eye. On that occasion, the guy noticed me clutching my hands over my eyes and saying "Holy FUCK, ow!", and was like, "What's the matter, baby?" Then I was all, "Nice shooting, asshole! Annie Fucking Oakley you are not! No more facials for you." As semen was bad enough, I have absolutely no desire to be picking the exoskeletons of pubic lice out of my tender, contact-wearing baby blues, so if this dude plans to dick slap me, he better brush up on his physical defense skills, because there will be no weiners in my face. In my mouth, vadge, or ass, maybe, but NOT IN MY FACE!
Labels: assholes, epidemic geekery, gross, holy fucking matrimony, nudity, oh the horror, sexual assault, weiners
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
R. Kelly is NOT a terrorist
I get Google alerts for "R. Kelly," and as a result I've seen quite a bit of what's out there on the blogosphere about the R-uh in R&B. There are a lot of people making bad "Pied Piper" and/or golden shower-themed jokes, a lot of other people agitating for his ruination despite his acquittal, and a handful of people talking about how awesome he is (and I get links occasionally to my site which fall under that category heading). Also, I have seen a lot of comments on my site and other Kells-related blog posts concerning how stupid and depraved I must be to love an obvious pedophile...WHO WAS PROVEN NOT FUCKING GUILTY BY A JURY OF HIS PEERS. Needless to say, I'm getting pretty tired of hearing what Robert Sylvester Kelly calls "the devil mouths" going on about how he's a child molester that deserves to spend eternity in a Bosch painting.
I therefore can understand how Kells wound up saying some wack shit in an interview, as he is often prone to do, especially when frustrated. This is one reason why R. Kelly's handlers keep him safely in the Chocolate Factory composing masterpieces of mackadelic nightspot realness rather than shooting off his yap to the press. It works when he describes himself as a marching band or a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in a song, but grandiose comparisons don't always work in interviews, as evidenced when the World's Greatest decided to compare his troubles with being demonized in the media to Al Qaeda's Greatest:
That's the finest rendition of our national anthem I've heard. It's even better than Lieutenant Frank Drebin performing it under the guise of Enrico Pallazzo before the Angels-Mariners game in The Naked Gun. If that doesn't make you shout a series of enthusiastic U!S!A!'s from the rooftops then I don't know what will. Kells loves America, and I STILL LOVE KELLS!
Osama Bin Laden is the only one who knows exactly what I'm going through. They can criticise you without even knowing you, and hate you when they don't even know you. All of a sudden, you're, like, the Bin Laden of America.While I see what Kells is trying to get at, I have to advise him that a comparison to the man who orchestrated 9/11 and whose sole ambition is to see all of us Western infidels (including Kells, no doubt) consumed in a fiery conflagration of divinely sanctioned jihadist wrath probably isn't going to win him a lot of sympathy points with his detractors. In fact, I think he may have just exacerbated the situation. I can already anticipate the "hey, quit sticking up for this creep!" comments, so I'm going to try (probably unsuccessfully), to head them off by posting empirical proof that R. Kelly loves America and actually has nothing in common with Osama Bin Laden save his negative media image:
That's the finest rendition of our national anthem I've heard. It's even better than Lieutenant Frank Drebin performing it under the guise of Enrico Pallazzo before the Angels-Mariners game in The Naked Gun. If that doesn't make you shout a series of enthusiastic U!S!A!'s from the rooftops then I don't know what will. Kells loves America, and I STILL LOVE KELLS!
Labels: intentional buffoonery, media whores, Robert Sylvester Kelly, terror
Now I know why the VOC went out of business
I have this thing for great seaman from days of yore. Part of it is my love for seaman, part of it is the fact that I grew up fishing and boating and swimming in the sea, part of it is my love of history, and part of it is my love of brave adventurers. Therefore I've read a lot about how the Dutch–under the control of the illustrious Gentlemen XVII–ruled the shit out the commercial shipping trade for about a century. I've spent a lot of time contemplating how an empire of commerce characterized by ships sailing from Mogul ports loaded with silks and spices and dyes could wind up famous for legalized euthanasia, prostitution, and weed bars. Now, it seems I have my answer. The Netherlands has a lot of stupid idiots. I read an article recently about how a bunch of Dutch people are preparing for the impending apocalypse predicted by the Mayan calendar. Now, that's when the Mayan calendar stops, but I don't necessarily read that as "imminent apocalypse." Maybe the Mayans just sucked at their calendar skills. I mean, there's a reason we're not all competing to be sacrificed in the local Mayan ball court, and that's because the Mayans get a big FAIL in the civilization stamina department. Maybe they predicted the end of times, and maybe they just sucked at chronology. Since there's no evidence, it's a matter of debate. However, many Dutchmen apparently are not as interested in things like "evidence" and have bought this Mayan calendar apocalypse theory as gospel.
Clearly, the Dutch Vereenige Oosteindische Compagnie no longer dominates the world indigo trade routes any longer due to utter stupidity. If Petra Faile is any indication, there is an epidemic of stupidity tormenting the Dutch something serious. No wonder Dutch shipping dominance went the way of the Mayans.
"You know, maybe it's really not that bad that the Netherlands will be destroyed," Petra Faile said. "I don't like it here anymore. Take immigration, for example. They keep letting people in. And then we have to build more houses, which makes the Netherlands even heavier. The country will sink even lower, which will make the flooding worse."Oh, I GET it! These apocalyptic Dutchmen are worse than those Minutemen Project guys when it comes to hating on immigrants. All those pesky foreigners coming into the hash bars of Amsterdam are going to make the entire country actually physically SINK and thus put it at risk for Katrina-esque floods! That makes a lot of sense if you're easily distracted by xenophobia disguised as scientifically baseless geological theories. Otherwise, it sounds like the ramblings of a total moron making lame excuses for being stupid enough to believe this Mayan calendar apocalypse prediction.
Clearly, the Dutch Vereenige Oosteindische Compagnie no longer dominates the world indigo trade routes any longer due to utter stupidity. If Petra Faile is any indication, there is an epidemic of stupidity tormenting the Dutch something serious. No wonder Dutch shipping dominance went the way of the Mayans.
The Douche-Vinci Code
You know how that DaVinci Code trash revolved primarily around secret effeminate apostles and cryptic shapes that Leonardo supposedly included in The Last Supper? I always thought that, while Leonardo's fresco or whatever is indeed a masterpiece, the notion that this painting somehow spells out a conspiracy involving self-flagellating albino priests, the European artfag community, and Josh Christ himself's kids was an idea conceived by a pretentious museumgoing douchebag who watches too many of those retarded "Bible code" shows on the History Channel and thinks he's really smart. Well, it turns out that The DaVinci Code's interpretation of art history isn't the most asinine take on portraying the original celebration of the sacrament of the eucharist. The historic party that kicked off a little thang called the passion and death of Christ seems even more idiotic when viewed through the lens of a drunken Mary-Kate Olsen's Ashton Kutcher COOLPIX camera.
From left to right, behold the apostles of douchery. Two aren't included, because I can only assume that the flanking characters, Bartholomew and Simon the Zealot wanted their legacies dragged through no part of this shitshow. First we have whichever lameass Madden brother next to Nicole Richie, whose raised SmartWater can be interpreted as either "I'm pregnant! See? Not drinking," or "Tonight I'm doing ecstasy!," making them the douchiest James son of Alphaeus and Andrew in history. Then we have Judas Iscariot next to Nicole/Andrew, looking pissed as hell that Nicole's douche-ass baby daddy is about to fire up that Camel Light, while the Tony Romo and Steve O-looking Saints Peter and John are looking on in interest to see whether Judas Iscariot will bust some Good Charlotte ass. Then JC himself is at the head of the table, disguised as a crusty lezbot from the 80s rocking the lumberjack look . Then Thomas, James the Greater, and Philip, who appear to respectively be that guy who plays Chuck Bass on "Gossip Girl," Natasha Lyonne, and Eli Roth, add an extra degree of ennui-filled apostolic douchery to the ensemble. And finally, Matthew needs to trim that perm and realize that wearing sunglasses inside at a dark, flannel-themed dinner party is idiotic, and Jude Thaddeus is Mary-Kate Olsen's boyfriend so you know he's an asshole. I don't trust anyone who sticks his dick into what seems like a creature conceived by Henrik Ibsen.
Seriously, I WISH this was the last supper these fools would ever eat, because such a comprehensive collection of douchebags really just shouldn't be allowed to continue existing. I bet Leonardo and Galileo are up in heaven at their weekly "We hate The DaVinci Code" meeting fuming at this latest affront to Leonardo's masterworks. Seriously, Jesus and his twelve apostles you are NOT, Mary-Kate Olsen flannel party attendees!
Labels: artfaggotry, assholes, celebrities, intentional buffoonery
OS X is a fucking pussy
I should rename this website "HatingOnApple Blog" after this week. I thought that between my rants about Coldplay, the Apple Store, and the Genius Bar and TAFKAMA's indictment of the entire brand, the topic of anti-Apple sentiments had been thoroughly explored. However, today while rejoicing in the return of my computer and simultaneously Gchatting with LL Cool Jew, I remembered one other thing I totally despise about being a Mac user.
LL Cool Jew: is it [my freshly repaired computer] working yet?I'm hardly surprised that the Mac marketers in charge of selling new versions of OS X are cat people. I hate cats, and I distrust the motives of people who prefer cats over dogs. Dogs are a species of animal that overflows with loyalty, love, and usefulness, while cats don't give a shit about humans and would probably eat their owners if they could. Choosing cats over dogs signifies a major personality flaw to me. So once again, even though I have my computer back and am happy with its freshly functioning brand new hard drive and keyboard with a working "control" and "øptíön" key, I have to express my stern disapproval for the way those assholes do things in Cupertino. Stupid cat-named operating system-running Macs!
Razzy: yes precious!
Razzy: thank god
Razzy: but i can't transfer my stewpid files
LL Cool Jew: woohoo!
Razzy: from my backup thang
LL Cool Jew: you techie
Razzy: because the "Tiger" OS X that I have now has a stupid inept "Migration Asst"
Razzy: before i used the "Leopard" OS X
LL Cool Jew: tiger
LL Cool Jew: leopard?
Razzy: but i can't install that trash until my PI [boss] gets back from vacation
LL Cool Jew: what is this, kung fu panda?
Razzy: dude another thing to hate about apple
Razzy: they name their various versions of OS X after large jungle catsRazzy: OS 10.1 is "cheetah" or "puma"
Razzy: OS 10.2 is "jaguar"
Razzy: OS 10.3 is "panther"
Razzy: OS 10.4 is "tiger"
Razzy: OS 10.5 is "leopard"
LL Cool Jew: wiggity wack
LL Cool Jew: could they just make One that works?
Razzy: and OS 10.6 is gonna be "snow leopard"
Razzy: SERIOUSLY
LL Cool Jew: i hate how they come out with a better thing every year
Razzy: actually OS X works fine
LL Cool Jew: you can never have teh coolest gadget
Razzy: but this computer is built out of fucking recycled 6-pack rings
Razzy: luckily, my PI is a big Mac ho
Razzy: so i get all the updates without paying
Razzy: but the whole feline theme is definitely another "check minus" against Apple
LL Cool Jew: they should name them after doggers! :)
LL Cool Jew: 10.3 the pugRazzy: YES! CHONGAY!
LL Cool Jew: 10.7 the lhasa apso
LL Cool Jew: 10.8 the dingo
Razzy: although 10.3 would be the laziest operating system ever
LL Cool Jew: 10.9 THE D [the D=LL Cool Jew's perpetually terrified longhaired Chihuahua]Razzy: and THAT would offer NO protection against viruses and spyware
Razzy: and the computer would urinate on you when it crashes
LL Cool Jew: ooooooo
Razzy: that e-mail was RELLAY scaray
LL Cool Jew: the d would be the kewtest operating system ever.
Labels: Apple sucks, CHONGAY CHONG, computer incompetence, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, the D
Daily Douchebag: Jeffrey Barrier
DOB: March 11, 1967
Occupation: peeping tom; the goatse of cell phones (and trust that you might want to think twice before clicking that link, especially if you're at work or have recently eaten)
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Cincinnati, Ohio
Douchebaggery: It was bad enough that Jeffrey Barrier is a loser creep who decided to save on his monthly amateur webcam bill by making his own material, snapping photos of an unsuspecting woman in a tanning salon with his camera phone. The woman finally caught on and complained, and cops eventually tracked Jeffrey down and questioned him about it.
He denied repeatedly that he even had a cell phone. Since even the most cracked-out vagrant has a cell phone, the police didn't believe him, and performed a cavity search. Sure enough, Jeffrey Barrier had a cell phone, all right...shoved up his ass. Per the police report published at The Smoking Gun, he "did hide evidence in his anus."
What I'd like to know is why Jeffrey Barrier was going through the trouble of illegally invading some naked chick's privacy when he could have easily gone to the internets and gotten way better shit for free! Every day I hear about some new porn tube site, so it's not like there isn't a plethora of low-res amateur stripping videos available just a mouse click away. I suppose he could get off on the thrill of secretly snapping away at 35-year-old women climbing into a tanning bed, but as far as covert voyeurism goes, that's pretty lame too. At least he could have gotten one of those "toilet cams" or something to install in the tanning bed. I mean, I'm pretty incompetent when it comes to tech stuff, but even I could probably manage hooking one of those things up. I feel like every degenerate working at Radio Shack probably is into skeezy stuff like spying on women in dressing rooms and the like, so they could certainly give some pointers that would be more stealth that scaling a cubicle wall and shoving the evidence into your colon. Granted, I'd be pissed if Jeffrey Barrier was taking pictures of my naked self (but why bother, there's plenty of that on the internets) without permission by any means, but I'd be especially annoyed if he got away doing some easily detectable shit like standing on a chair with a cell phone and then shoving said phone up his ass to evade capture. If you're going to be a creepy peeping tom, at least have some skills about it.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, perversion
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the U.S. Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team
DOB: 1988-1994
Occupation: kicking some Chinese gymnastics team ass (and the rest of the world's too) in Beijing come August!
Hometown: everywhere from Des Moines, Iowa to Moscow, Russia
Current residence: wherever Marta Karolyi is running her Olympics team training camp
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Sunday night, LL Cool Jew and I were watching the U.S. Olympics Trials in women's gymnastics. LL Cool Jew is Olympics-crazy, so I can always count on her to do some interstate trial watching via text message. Since girls–including me–seem to invariably have an innate interest in gymnastics, I figured that she would be watching this for sure and I wasn't wrong. In fact, the only thing that kept her from the whole thing was some wedding shower she had to attend.
Razzy: R u watchn the olympic trials?In addition to being excited about the appearance of the excessively energetic Bela Karolyi and feeling sufficiently gross for having dirty lesbian fantasies about a 16-year-old, I am really looking forward to watching our national gymnastics team kick some international ass come August. I did some internets research on the ladies, and surmised that LL Cool Jew's prediction of Olympic glory for our gymnasts is very, very possible. I also checked Wikipedia and discovered that Nastia Liukin is actually 18, so I'm marginally less of a creep. Shawn Johnson, bitch though I think she is behind closed doors, apparently does the most technically difficult, complicated gymnastics moves in the sport. Nastia Liukin has won four all-around world championships. Alicia Sacramone has seven various world championship medals under her leotard belt, and Chellsie Memmel also has an all-around world championship, and has two separate moves named after her. These bitches are totally fierce and they are going to kick ass. Plus, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, they do not look as emaciated as gymnasts typically do. All these ladies have at least A cups (which for a gymnast is an unbelievable rack) and many of them have fine, round asses. I do not feel as disturbed as I normally do watching elite gymnasts running around in their leotards, because they actually appear to have gone through puberty and don't look like super athletic versions of Gollum.
LL Cool Jew: dude! just got hm from shittastic bridal showr. takn th dogs out thn change thn trials! s th gymnastics on yet?
Razzy: Yes! Gymsnatchtits on now!
LL Cool Jew: did u know this yrs wmns gymnastics team may b th strongest ever?? shawn johnson, nastia liukin n chellsie memmel r the 1s 2 watch!
Razzy: Shawn johnson just won a trip 2 beijing!
LL Cool Jew: o shit! i'll b on th couch in 5
LL Cool Jew: shit! is it over??
Razzy: Almost. Some loser prancn 2 tocatta and fugue
Razzy: Dude i wld have a kells jam 4 my floor routine
LL Cool Jew: just turned it on. dont they look less deprived n hungry as gymnasts usually r?
Razzy: Yes! They all have t & a.
Razzy: I miss bela karolyis crazy ass on the gymnasty scene
Razzy: Shawn johnson s such a bitch. I can tell.
LL Cool Jew: u r so mean! she was gracious. n dont worry abt misn bela, his wifes th coach now. he'll b around
Razzy: I m such a hater but m telln u: sj s a nightmare when the cameras r off
LL Cool Jew: omg have u seen alicia scarmone. she is my girlfriend dude
Razzy: S that ths blonde ho?
Razzy: Her taste n music sux hard
LL Cool Jew: kinda dark blond. blue leotard. h o t.
Razzy: Floor exercise music blows
Razzy: Ths music s like carnaval meets a rave n the basement of emerson house. Lame
LL Cool Jew: i thnk th us womens gymnastics team is th daily dude. shawn johnson n nastia l. r th no. 1 & 2 gymnsts n th world! we will dominate! u! s! a!
LL Cool Jew: vault n esp balance beam r th best (and most dangerous)
Razzy: Balance beam blows my mind
LL Cool Jew: i know! th level of difficulty is such that its hard 2 fathom what yr seeing s evn possible
LL Cool Jew: o! n ths chelsea memml was the 2003 world champion but got injurd n cdnt go 2 athens n now shes makn her big comeback!
LL Cool Jew: watch: sj on wheaties box *with a quickness*
Razzy: Trust. I thnk nastia s hot n has a hot ass name
LL Cool Jew: her eyes are wonky. her name s scary.
LL Cool Jew: they hate each other
Razzy: Shes a terror n the sack. Shes nastia!
Razzy: Id hit it w nastia liukin
LL Cool Jew: shes 16
Razzy: Alicia sacramone is hot. Id hit that 2
LL Cool Jew: and shes 20! but i saw her first
LL Cool Jew: nastia s 16. alicia s 20.
Razzy: 16? My bad. Again, cue the bump n grind remix
Razzy: Ill look up nastia n 2 years
LL Cool Jew: alicia sacarmone has lesbish body language
Razzy: Shes no stranger to a clam bake 4 sure
Razzy: Yes! Bela!
LL Cool Jew: theres bela
Apparently, the next day, LL Cool Jew got into it with her mother about our gymnastics team. LL Cool Jew's mom is a kung fu master who used to work as a bodyguard for the Black Panthers in the 70s, and her radical leanings apparently stunt her patriotism somewhat. In spite of the fact that I know LL Cool Jew's mom watches the Olympics, she apparently roots for foreigners "on principle."
LL Cool Jew: you knowEven if LL Cool Jew's mom isn't feeling it, I'm still convinced that our gymnastics team is going to smote some Chinese and Romanian and Russian and every other gymnastics-loving nation's ruin on the mountainside. USA! U!S!A! U!S!A!
LL Cool Jew: i just have to tell you this story about my mom
LL Cool Jew: you will so be the exact right person to tell about this
Razzy: k
LL Cool Jew: she is 100% the person ronald reagan meant when he talked about the "blame america first crowd"
Razzy: lol for realz
LL Cool Jew: we were talking about the u.s. women's gymnastics team
LL Cool Jew: i was remarking on how dominant they will be
Razzy:: she started to hate?
LL Cool Jew: and i had the temerity to add a little "U! S! A!" at the end
Razzy: i love the U! S! A!
Razzy: that is like my favorite american thing to do
LL Cool Jew: she totz went ballistic
LL Cool Jew: about how jingoistic i was being
LL Cool Jew: and i was like
LL Cool Jew: HOLD ON LADY.
Razzy: "jingoistic"
Razzy: lol
LL Cool Jew: the olympics are ALL ABOUT NATIONALISM
Razzy: sorry, mom, but you ARE american
LL Cool Jew: and do you think your precious CHINESE aren't approaching this as the most major NATIONALISTIC DEMONSTRATION IN THEIR 5000-YEAR HISTORY????
Razzy: either love the olympics or STFU!
Razzy: well, for fucking real!
Razzy: is she rooting for china?
LL Cool Jew: she DOES love teh olympics but she likes to root for foreigners on principle!
LL Cool Jew: what principle? don't ask
LL Cool Jew: i don't know
LL Cool Jew: BLAME AMERICA FIRST i guess
LL Cool Jew: and i was like look
LL Cool Jew: the economy's in the shitter
LL Cool Jew: we have a craptastic and emabrrassing president
LL Cool Jew: the dollar ain't worth a damn
LL Cool Jew: we could use some cheering up!
Razzy: let's get excited about our gymsnatchtits team!
LL Cool Jew: nothing like a good old-fashioned display of american excellence to perk us up!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, LL Cool Jew, Olympics, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Monday, June 23, 2008
Still waiting
According to Apple's service center, my computer is fixed and return is "pending." However, I still don't have my precious computer back in my hot little hands because those so-called Geniuses at Apple are apparently too good to give me a UPS tracking number that will allow me to stalk it en route, so I'm not sure if I'll get to writing the "Daily Dude I Want to Hit: U.S. Women's Gymnastics especially Nastia Liukin and Alicia Sacramone" post I told LL Cool Jew I'd cobble together last night during the Olympic trials.
In the meantime, you can see my new contributor TAFKAMA (that stands for "The Artist Formerly Known as Mullah AntoniHo") bitching about how stupid Apple is. The other day he Gchatted me to announce that "i want to be a contributor on your blog. i hate amy winehouse, she is a dirty cunt rag whore." I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have someone discussing that, since I feel the same way, so I hooked him up with author privileges. While he has yet to finish his post discussing Amy Winehouse's many transgressions, his ire was temporarily rerouted to Mac users in a post he finished this weekend. Go read it and leave him some comments. However, be warned: TAFKAMA is a total hater, so if he deems any of your comments to be stupid (which he probably will), rest assured that he will probably tell you so.
Hopefully I'll be installing OS X on my computer by tonight, and will return to my usual prolific level of output in the next couple days.
Labels: Apple sucks, excuses, TAFKAMA
Saturday, June 21, 2008
(TAFKAMA's) Daily Douchebag: Apple / Mac computer users
Name: Razzy, Tom Hanks, Madonna, Jeff Goldblum, Tim Allen, John Tesh, Bono, Courtney Love...
DOB: Various
Occupation: (Singing the praises of) and (ruing the day they ever decided to purchase) their overpriced impossible to repair computer
Hometown: All sorts
Current residence: Probably in line with Razzy at the Genius Bar store or their local equivalent
Put down your NPR coffee mug (and your crack pipe) and come to your senses! While PCs may glitch out from time to time, the entire business world has somehow decided that PCs are the computer of choice due to the initial cost savings, ease of repair, and ability to customize the machine to suit the exact needs of the end user. Razzy's recent computer woes are proof positive that unless you want to wade through a bureaucracy more convoluted than the North Korean government you are far better off with a boring old PC. While they may not be as aerodynamic and come with far fewer celebrity endorsements, I have never had to ship my PC across the country to have it repaired nor have I been forced to go to an approved Mac repair facility in lieu of choosing from one of the numerous repair shops that are far closer to my home. Have fun driving 30 miles to the only Mac store in your county and standing in line with the squadrons of graphic designer wannabes!
You know the Mac commercials with the PC nerd and the Mac hipster standing side by side? The commercial that they should make would show PC and Mac after a night of hard partying. PC wakes up with a slight hangover and is still able to make it through the work day while Mac has a PCP fueled nervous breakdown and has to fly to the Betty Ford clinic for a week to get his shit back together.
Apple should hedge its bets and stick to the iPod and iPhone. Leave the serious business to the PC manufacturers and the legions of geeks that have made the PC the alpha and the omega of the modern computer age. There is no feasible reason for someone to purchase a Mac computer (unless of course you consider having a two thousand dollar 8 1/2" x 11" paper weight a valid reason). Wake up people! Just say no to Mac.
Labels: Apple sucks, computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, TAFKAMA
Friday, June 20, 2008
And speaking of birthdays...
My thirtieth isn't for a few months (November 17th...mark your calendars), but I know you're all already fretting about what to get me. Probably because it's almost impossible to top the "My Bitches" Razzy: Manhattan's Favorite Dog-Owning Bisexual Alcoholic figurine my friend Rack made for me last year.
However, I just found the perfect present for me. As anyone with the most basic Razzyphilic tendencies knows, I love me some Heineken beer. And as several lucky fellas can attest, I know several ways to have a great time in a hot tub, and a jacuzzi is one furnishing that my apartment sorely needs. Thus, behold the perfect birthday gift:
I'm not sure where you can actually get one of these, but someone's got to know. If you are that someone, you might want to get to shopping. Anyone getting me this to celebrate my third decade of life will reap great rewards, and by "rewards" I mean "grade A oral"! TRUST!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, I LOVE IT, Razzification
Happy birthday, Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer!
I've made it a tradition to publicly acknowledge my friends Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer's birthdays for the last couple years, because they were reading my site before ANY of my other friends when it was just a couple crappy movie reviews. They are the OG Titanium Elite-level Razzyphiles and that I must recognize. Plus, they're my boys and I get together with them lots whenever I'm home in the P-N-Dub. Here's some fun facts about them:
-They are appropriately Geminis, as they are twins
-Morrissey'sHair is older than HotLawyer by four minutes, just like Brandon and Brenda Walsh
-You can tell them apart because Morrissey'sHair broke his nose in junior high
-I totally boned one of them years ago (you can speculate as to which one). We were drunk. No harm, no foul!
-They are both lawyers. HotLawyer gets people off on DUIs and meth lab charges, while Morrissey'sHair negotiates bankruptcy settlements for the financially fucked
-HotLawyer has provided me with many pro boner legal services in the past whenever some fucktard threatens me with Craigslist rape or lawsuits
-Morrissey'sHair probably WILL have to provide me with pro boner legal services if I don't get out of grad school and start making some goddamned real money soon
-They both have a sickening devotion to Morrissey
-They once sent me a Rush Limbaugh book in high school from a "secret admirer" because I was such a bleeding heart neo-marxist feminazi lesbian back then. Now, they're both rabid Obama supporters and I'm a Republican. The tables have turned.
-My father LOVES them, especially HotLawyer, because of the praise they lavish on his cooking. When I mentioned I was coming home this summer for a visit, he asked, "So, what night are we having those guys over for dinner? HotLawyer sure does like my cooking."
-They're both hot studly dudes, great drankin patnaz, and totz kewl guys!
Anyway, their birthday is actually TOMORROW, but since stupid Apple has my computer somewhere in Texas while they fix it, I won't be able to post anything for them since I'll be getting drunk and sunburnt at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade all day. So today I'm recognizing that my fellas are turning the big 3-0! Only two more decades to go before they're officially over the hill.
Happy birthday, dudes. I'm going to get drunk and try to feel up some mermaid tits in your honor!
XOBJBS,
Razzy
And just for you two, here's a picture of Morrissey. Like Caese and Chingy!, he hates Iams dog food. Unlike Caese and Chingy!, it's probably because Iams isn't vegan or something. Caese and Chingy! are just Beneful loyalists.
Labels: aging, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, Razzyphiles
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Blame the Geniuses
So this morning you probably went to RAZZY.org looking for your usual fix of useless bullshit, and were shocked and dismayed to find a whole lot of NOTHING NEW. Why, you ask? Because I was at the so-called Genius Bar getting my MacBook fixed. Actually, I wasn't so much getting it "fixed" as I was getting it sent off somewhere for fixing. The good news is that the problem is under warranty, so it's free. The bad news is that it's going to take 5-7 business days, so expect the communiqués from me to be sparse until next week.
Luckily, I managed to avoid murdering anyone inside the Apple store, which is quite an accomplishment considering the very building itself pissed me off:
Not only did its super trendy design give me the impression of descending into the bowels of a giant iMac, but this place is apparently a fucking TOURIST ATTRACTION judging by the number of fanny pack-sporting Midwesterners oohing and aahing and photographing the various displays of iPods and iPhones and other assorted iBullshit. The store was also blasting Radiohead at full volume and inundating me with images of various Apple crap. I seriously felt like I had walked into Recall, and was about to get false memories implanted of being a secret agent married to Sharon Stone wreaking havoc with the evil dictatorship on Mars. The only thing that kept me from going on a murderous rampage was the fact that mercifully, the Apple Store DJ didn't spin any Coldplay jams.
My "genius" was also very friendly and helpful, and he was more of a regular nerd than a hipster Mac nerd, so I didn't hate him. In fact, he made some lame joke that I didn't quite catch, and when I laughed to be polite, he responded, "I see you've read Dune!"
Uhhh...he just made a joke about Dune? I haven't read that book since high school, but I vaguely remember the cheesetastic David Lynch movie. I seem to remember something about some rival feudal lords in space trying to corner the intergalactic spice market, and the main character was some kind of Messianic figure to the desert dwellers, and they rode around everywhere on these worms that were apparently the forbears of the monsters in Tremors, but that's about it.
"Oh, yeah, Dune ruled," I said, hoping that a closed-ended agreement to his Dune-worship would prompt him to start telling me about how he was going to instantly fix my MacBook. It just kept him going about Dune, though. He asked if I'd seen the miniseries (I said, "No, the only thing I watch on SciFi is--ahem--'Battlestar Galactica,'") informed me that a new version of it was being made currently, and he was adapting yet ANOTHER screenplay in his spare time since he felt that the previous efforts weren't faithful enough to Frank Herbert's masterful vision. In spite of all the annoying stories about minutiae involved in various retellings of Dune, I was relieved to have just a normal, sweet, garden-variety nerd handling my MacBook issues than some sort of Justin Long-esque Applephile yammering about the superiority of OS X. The whole process only took about 30 minutes, my blood pressure and overall rage level was considerably less than I thought I was going to be, and I didn't even have to use my (imaginary) AK. Overall, I have to say it was a good day at the Genius Bar.
Anyway, because of the primitive MacBook-free existence I have to live for the next few days, I have to humbly request your patience with me. I'll post a little hither and thither but the copious amounts of Razzification that you have come to depend upon like one of the desert people from Dune requires spice will be lacking until my baby comes back to me with a new hard drive and keyboard. Patience, my love. The precious will soon return. In the meantime, blame the Geniuses for not being smart enough to fix my MacBook on the fucking spot.
Labels: Apple sucks, computer incompetence, excuses, nerd alert
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Hottest Smith alumnae on the planet
It's that time of the quarter again! What time, you ask? Time for the new edition of the Smith Alumnae Quarterly! What do you mean, "I didn't go to Smith, I don't get the Smith Alumnae Quarterly?" You don't have to go to Smith to read the greatest magazine in the world! Who wouldn't want to read articles about subjects like a scrappy band of student activists creatively calling themselves "Coke Off Campus" rallied together on behalf of bottling plant employees in Colombia (seriously, they bottle COKE at sweatshops...in Colombia?) and India to ban Coca-Cola products from the Campus Center, or how some chick got a job at Google thanks to the all-powerful alumnae network (which, I should add, has yet to do shit for me besides give Tej Bindra my home address so she could conspire with her friends to get me raped by an inadvertent pervert on Craigslist)? This shit is more informative than the damn Economist!
Okay, I kid...I don't even get the SAQ anymore since I think they put me on probation after the Tej Offensive, which was started by Tej Bindra '07 calling me an assfuck and suggesting I get some Zoloft to treat my tendency to make fun of dumb SAQ articles about the dorm room she shared with her fellow flatchested Dar Williams aficionado. The last time I got a SAQ, I promptly douchebagged the entire magazine, and I think that was the last straw that broke the cameltoe's back. Presumably they booted me from the subscription list, because I haven't received a SAQ since. Oh well, who needs a SAQ to prove that she's got a "baccalaureum artibus" degree from Smith when she's got a fancy leather bound diploma--with seals and Latin and everything--tucked safely away in her bedside table with her vibrators, condoms, and lube?
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
Go Pioneers!
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
JerseyGirl '02 is a television news producer in Manhattan. She was recently elected to the New York Smith club board of directors and organizes events and parties for the club. JerseyGirl hangs out with Razzy '00, FalloniusMonk '01, and Rack '01, during monthly 90210 parties and weekly get-togethers that include cooking and watching the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming...JerseyGirl regularly sees lots of other Smithies in New York City, most of whom were at the wedding of LL Cool Jew '02 in April '07.This rules so hard. While everyone else was out getting married, procreating, or adding more letters behind their name, JerseyGirl announces that we've all been watching Bev Niner and "I Love New York." She seems embarrassed that she actually bragged to the SAQ that we're into "the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming" instead of the typical boring Smith alumnae crap. I mean, I have gotten two master's degrees since Smith and by next year I'm going to make every motherfucker I meet call me "Doctor," but who cares about that? I'd certainly rather hear about how we loyally watch DVDs of the greatest show in the history of television and teach JerseyGirl how to make grilled cheese sandwiches during commercial breaks in "Flavor of Love 3" and "The Hills." Smith College must be so proud.
Go Pioneers!
Labels: Bev Niner, correspondence, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Rack, The Hills, Vh1
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: gay marriage in California
DOB: June 17, 2008
Occupation: making for some official homo couples
Hometown: Sacramento, California
Current residence: throughout the Golden State
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I think most people can probably easily surmise that I'm pro-gay marriage. I actually don't really care whether it's called "marriage" or "civil union" or whatever else, so long as the queers doing it get the same rights afforded to their heterosexual counterparts. Luckily, as of yesterday, it's ON in California!
Some people may be scratching their heads and thinking, "Wait a second...isn't Razzy a Republican? How can she support gay marriage?" It may be true that in this election, I'm down with officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain, but I don't vote for social issues. I'm also pro-choice, and in spite of all the women who have told me in near-hysterical tones that "BUT THEY ONLY NEED ONE MORE SUPREME COURT JUSTICE!" Well, seven of the nine justices were appointed by Republican presidents and I still managed to have a safe (albeit horrible), legal abortion. I'm not voting for a president with my uterus, or with my semi-gay vagina. Besides, I believe that marriage law should be decided by the states, not the federal government. So, yes...I'm all for the homos getting hitched and having every other civil right afforded to Americans. Besides, every last pervy Razzyphile who has jerked off to a post I've written about fucking girls here and there knows that I'm bi, and what do you think the "B" in LGBT stands for? I say a big "yay" to gay rights.
I therefore offer a wholehearted congratulations to all the hot fags and lezzies making it legal in California, and wish them nothing but happiness and success in their marriages. I hope they truly enjoy each other's health insurance benefits, and the marriage benefit on their taxes, and planning each other's funerals. Go gay marriage!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, vulgar display of faggotry
Daily Douchebag: FUCKING APPLE COMPUTERS!
DOB: April 1, 1976
Occupation: pissing me off and interrupting my all-important constantly available MacBook routine
Hometown: Cupertino, California
Current residence: soon to be the goddamned motherfucking piece of shit "Genius Bar"
Douchebaggery: Today the day has arrived in which I must swap in the broken hard drive that came with my computer for the rapidly disintegrating hard drive that my PI installed before I realized I had a 1 year hardware warranty, so that the warranty will be valid and the pricks at the so-called "Genius Bar" will pop in a new one. Hopefully, they will fix my misbehaving "control" and "option" keys while they are at it, so that I can just reinstall Leopard and get back to having a normal, healthy MacBook that I can take with me everywhere I go. Therefore, be warned: I hope that this is something they can fix on site at the Apple store, but I know the possibility exists that they may ship my Mac off to some nerd sweatshop for its recuperation. If I don't post tomorrow, it's probably because my computer is off at the Cylon Resurrection Ship getting worked on. Yes, I just made a BSG reference, and no I'm not embarrassed anymore that I watch "Battlestar Galactica," even if it IS a show about the robot-battling Olympian god-worshiping Latter Day Saints. If Apple can call their tech support a "Genius Bar," then I can admit to liking my show about space Mormons. Edward James Olmos, Xena: Warrior Princess, Noah Hunter's roofie-slipping brother Josh from "90210," and Stands With a Fist from Dances with Wolves are in it, there's a one-eyed guy who looks like John McCain, the special effects are cheesetastically crappy, and it frakking rules. ANYWAY!
I'm extremely pissed that after owning this thing for less than a year, its components have given me so much fucking trouble, and although I really, REALLY like it when it's working, I've discussed at length how much I loathe the term "Genius Bar." In spite of the fact that I'm expecting to see a bunch of pompous, Converse-wearing, asymmetrical hair-having, non-genius, Justin Long-looking douchebags prepared to condescend to me at the Genius Bar, everyone I know with a Mac has said that they are "always very nice" and "extremely helpful." However, one of those positive reviews came from someone I totally hate and despise, so I'm still skeptical that I won't spend my entire time there doing meditational deep breathing to prevent myself from opening a Costco-sized can of supercunt on the geek chic fucktards scrutinizing my MacBook. It also has not escaped my notice that nearly everyone I know with a Mac in their possession has suffered a trip to the Genius Bar at least once. FalloniusMonk even advised me that the fact that my computer is still under warranty means I get to skip to the front of the line for service, knowledge suggesting that hers broke too during it's inaugural year of life. Since those arrogant "I'm an asshole who manages to be patronizing and self-deprecating at the same time, I'm a Mac!" commercials lead me to believe that Macs never, ever break down and equally infuriating Mac snobs are always crowing about the "stability" and "security" of these computers, it pisses me off that in reality these things have the mechanical stamina of a fucking Geo Prism. Everyone has to take it into the repair shop sooner or later.
As if Apple couldn't piss me off more with all their trappings of false superiority, I opened up my internets browser and saw this as the "Featured Content" on Apple's home page (yes, I'm too lazy to change Safari's default settings for home page selection):
Jesus Christ, Apple, why didn't you also feature the complete third season of "Grey's Anatomy" to complete the Holy Trinity of entertainment that I hate? I've written not one but two SEPARATE posts about how much I hate Fool's Gold, a movie that I haven't even seen, and simply anticipating catching a solitary note of Chris Martin's cloying falsetto makes me want to pull a Van Gogh with BOTH ears. I don't even have to hear him sing; all I need to do is see him shuffling around in some gay-ass collarless waistcoat getting ready to SUCK MAJORLY. I swear that "Vida La Vida" and "Clocks" bump loudly on eternal repeat in my own personal hell. I know that Apple sweats Coldplay's insufferable ass in a major way and I loathe their marketing department's taste, but Tha Carter Vol. III has been selling well too! Weezy F Baby should be up there, bemusedly looking as fucked up on blunts and purple drank as he constantly is, not fucking Coldplay!
I'm pretty sure that Apple has a secret agenda to string me along with the tempting promises a working MacBook offers, only to destroy me with their shoddy equipment and infuriating marketing schemes. I feel like Persephone: the pomegranate tastes great, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm stuck sucking Hades's cock in the fucking underworld! My MacBook better be fixed and it better mean that I get to return to the land of the living AKA a place where my computer does whatever I want it to whenever I want it to with no grinding noises or need to reinstall bitch-ass Leopard.
Labels: Apple sucks, computer incompetence, ranting
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Marathon Man by JerseyGirl
The length of years a woman is single in New York is directly proportionate to how many bizarre, funny and awful dating stories she'll wind up collecting in her repertoire. Though I had had a "boyfriend" for the my first two years in the Big Apple, to actually call him my boyfriend in the traditional sense of the word would be a misrepresentation. I cheated on him freely and at will, which is the main reason as to why I have so many bizarre, funny and awful dating stories. Here is one of the more hilarious ones.
I work as a television news producer and once a month this publicist throws an extended happy hour for media types. It’s always done at some fancy, up-and-coming bar in the city, and tons of people go to mingle with their coworkers and enjoy two free hours of copious drinking. One January a few years ago, I decided to take advantage of said party, at some club in the Meatpacking district. Since I'm an experienced drinker, especially when the booze is free, when the two hours had passed I was three sheets to the wind. My colleagues decided it was time to head home, and I thought I should probably get going too. On my way walking through the door, however, I spotted a really cute guy sitting on a couch. He was sitting alone, talking to another guy who was standing up. Since there was ample room on the couch next to him, I brazenly stumbled over to couch, plopped myself right next to him, and said, "Hi, I'm Annie."
Liquid courage is the best isn't it? Or in this case, THE WORST!
He said his name was Marathon Man, and he was a reporter for the Daily News. I have a total and utter weak spot for print reporters, since my ex was one himself, and I thought for a long time he was the love of my life. But that's a different story. MM and I chatted for about twenty minutes, and the conversation flowed easily. He was cute and seemed totally interested. When I announced it was time I got my drunk ass home, he made an attempt to come home with me. But even through my drunken haze, I knew I had to be at work early, and I could tell this guy was so into me that I was certain he'd call way sooner than later, so I politely declined, gave him my card, and got myself a cab.
The next day I had an email waiting for me in my inbox from Marathan Man, asking me out. I replied yes, and we had a great first date. He took me to this cute Italian café downtown, where we had a delicious meal, and listened to some live music afterwards. I got to know him better, and learned he was an accomplished marathon runner and loved to hike, rock climb, and all that outdoors shit. I'm not into that at all (at least I wasn't at the time), but I thought he must be in teriffic shape with all that exercise. All the better for me.
We ended the night with a few more brewdogs and a game of pool. We split a cab back uptown and made out the whole way. I was psyched - he was a great kisser! I thought for sure that Marathon Man and I might be headed towards a little place called love.
A few days later, we made plans to hang out again. This time, I invited him over to my place instead of going out. I did this for one reason and one reason only - I wanted to seriously hook up. I wasn't sure if we were going to have sex or not, but I at least wanted to fool around with him enough so that I could check out the goods, if you get my drift. Plus, my apartment at the time was about 350 square feet with a table and two chairs, a bed, and that's about it. It would be nearly impossible for a guy not to pick up on the reason I invited him over. We started off the evening drinking some brewdogs at the table, and watching whatever game was on tv. After about three beers a piece, I got up to get something out of my closet, and when I peered back out he was lying on the bed. Smooth move, I thought. He clearly was on the same page I was. Let the humping begin!
Which is what we immediately started to do. I will admit that in my earlier years I was something of a freak and could seriously, literally, have an O from dry humping. So in the course of me grinding all up on him, I totally came. It was awesome! What was not awesome was that two minutes later, I was partially deafened by:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
In case my aaahh, oooh, aaahhh wasn't explicit enough for you, that was the sound of Marathon Man. Having an orgasm. While we were dry humping. With all our clothes on. For only five minutes.
Did I mention, he's 36 years old?
I looked at him with a horrified expression on my face, I'm sure, and he mustered up something about how hot I was, and that he couldn't control himself.
Dude, I don't care if you had freakin Gisele on top of you, NO MAN, and I mean NO MAN over the age of 15 has the right to come in his pants. It is just something that boys, who are turning into men, learn at a very young age is NOT COOL. Wanna know what else is not cool? Watching a wet spot slowly start to form on your date's jeans, while he's lying on your bed. Yuck!
About one minute later, I said I didn't feel well and asked him in the nicest way possible to leave. He begrudingly did, and then asked if he could see me again. I told him to email me and we'd figure it out. That of course, meant no.
For inexplicable reasons that I still have not figured out to this day, I decided against my better judgment, and that of every woman out there, to see him again. He told me he wanted to make me dinner, and he said he'd make my favorite meal - steak and mac'n'cheese. I figured at the very least I'd get a free meal out of it and an interesting story to tell later on. And interesting, it most certainly is.
We had a great dinner, and he was really nice and funny throughout and had put a lot of effort into making the meal a nice one, so I decided to take him up on his lame cue to "look through a photo album" in his bedroom. While lying on his bed, looking at pictures, it seemed as though he had a really nice family, normal friends, and he really seemed to be a good guy. So I took pity on him and decided to try to hook up with him again. I mean, there's no way he could come in his pants twice, right? Right?
Wrong.
Again, we were hooking up, and again through the course of dry humping, I came. But this time I was totally quiet about it; I didn’t want to give him any reason whatsoever to think that it was okay for him to come in his pants. However, after what I would say was about ten minutes of kissing, light petting, and dry humping, again I was horrified to hear:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
It had happened yet again. The 36 year-old Marathon Man had managed to come in his pants, not once, but twice, over the course of four days. While he was coming, I had to stifle a laugh. For I knew at that exact moment I had a doozy of a story to tell all of my friends. I uncomfortably rolled over and while lying next to him, and was yet again forced to watch a wet spot form on his jeans. We layed there for about five minutes and made chitchat while he sat in underwear soaked in cum. Then, at the very first opportune moment, I yet again announced that I wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He was really sweet and asked if there was anything he could get me. Hmmm, maybe just a towel? For yourself? So you could WIPE THE CUM OFF OF YOUR PANTS, YOU FREAK!
I ran out of his place as quickly as possible, immediately met my girlfriend for a beer, and regaled the story of my very own Marathon Man, who came in his pants while making out with me - fully clothed.
I work as a television news producer and once a month this publicist throws an extended happy hour for media types. It’s always done at some fancy, up-and-coming bar in the city, and tons of people go to mingle with their coworkers and enjoy two free hours of copious drinking. One January a few years ago, I decided to take advantage of said party, at some club in the Meatpacking district. Since I'm an experienced drinker, especially when the booze is free, when the two hours had passed I was three sheets to the wind. My colleagues decided it was time to head home, and I thought I should probably get going too. On my way walking through the door, however, I spotted a really cute guy sitting on a couch. He was sitting alone, talking to another guy who was standing up. Since there was ample room on the couch next to him, I brazenly stumbled over to couch, plopped myself right next to him, and said, "Hi, I'm Annie."
Liquid courage is the best isn't it? Or in this case, THE WORST!
He said his name was Marathon Man, and he was a reporter for the Daily News. I have a total and utter weak spot for print reporters, since my ex was one himself, and I thought for a long time he was the love of my life. But that's a different story. MM and I chatted for about twenty minutes, and the conversation flowed easily. He was cute and seemed totally interested. When I announced it was time I got my drunk ass home, he made an attempt to come home with me. But even through my drunken haze, I knew I had to be at work early, and I could tell this guy was so into me that I was certain he'd call way sooner than later, so I politely declined, gave him my card, and got myself a cab.
The next day I had an email waiting for me in my inbox from Marathan Man, asking me out. I replied yes, and we had a great first date. He took me to this cute Italian café downtown, where we had a delicious meal, and listened to some live music afterwards. I got to know him better, and learned he was an accomplished marathon runner and loved to hike, rock climb, and all that outdoors shit. I'm not into that at all (at least I wasn't at the time), but I thought he must be in teriffic shape with all that exercise. All the better for me.
We ended the night with a few more brewdogs and a game of pool. We split a cab back uptown and made out the whole way. I was psyched - he was a great kisser! I thought for sure that Marathon Man and I might be headed towards a little place called love.
A few days later, we made plans to hang out again. This time, I invited him over to my place instead of going out. I did this for one reason and one reason only - I wanted to seriously hook up. I wasn't sure if we were going to have sex or not, but I at least wanted to fool around with him enough so that I could check out the goods, if you get my drift. Plus, my apartment at the time was about 350 square feet with a table and two chairs, a bed, and that's about it. It would be nearly impossible for a guy not to pick up on the reason I invited him over. We started off the evening drinking some brewdogs at the table, and watching whatever game was on tv. After about three beers a piece, I got up to get something out of my closet, and when I peered back out he was lying on the bed. Smooth move, I thought. He clearly was on the same page I was. Let the humping begin!
Which is what we immediately started to do. I will admit that in my earlier years I was something of a freak and could seriously, literally, have an O from dry humping. So in the course of me grinding all up on him, I totally came. It was awesome! What was not awesome was that two minutes later, I was partially deafened by:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
In case my aaahh, oooh, aaahhh wasn't explicit enough for you, that was the sound of Marathon Man. Having an orgasm. While we were dry humping. With all our clothes on. For only five minutes.
Did I mention, he's 36 years old?
I looked at him with a horrified expression on my face, I'm sure, and he mustered up something about how hot I was, and that he couldn't control himself.
Dude, I don't care if you had freakin Gisele on top of you, NO MAN, and I mean NO MAN over the age of 15 has the right to come in his pants. It is just something that boys, who are turning into men, learn at a very young age is NOT COOL. Wanna know what else is not cool? Watching a wet spot slowly start to form on your date's jeans, while he's lying on your bed. Yuck!
About one minute later, I said I didn't feel well and asked him in the nicest way possible to leave. He begrudingly did, and then asked if he could see me again. I told him to email me and we'd figure it out. That of course, meant no.
For inexplicable reasons that I still have not figured out to this day, I decided against my better judgment, and that of every woman out there, to see him again. He told me he wanted to make me dinner, and he said he'd make my favorite meal - steak and mac'n'cheese. I figured at the very least I'd get a free meal out of it and an interesting story to tell later on. And interesting, it most certainly is.
We had a great dinner, and he was really nice and funny throughout and had put a lot of effort into making the meal a nice one, so I decided to take him up on his lame cue to "look through a photo album" in his bedroom. While lying on his bed, looking at pictures, it seemed as though he had a really nice family, normal friends, and he really seemed to be a good guy. So I took pity on him and decided to try to hook up with him again. I mean, there's no way he could come in his pants twice, right? Right?
Wrong.
Again, we were hooking up, and again through the course of dry humping, I came. But this time I was totally quiet about it; I didn’t want to give him any reason whatsoever to think that it was okay for him to come in his pants. However, after what I would say was about ten minutes of kissing, light petting, and dry humping, again I was horrified to hear:
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
It had happened yet again. The 36 year-old Marathon Man had managed to come in his pants, not once, but twice, over the course of four days. While he was coming, I had to stifle a laugh. For I knew at that exact moment I had a doozy of a story to tell all of my friends. I uncomfortably rolled over and while lying next to him, and was yet again forced to watch a wet spot form on his jeans. We layed there for about five minutes and made chitchat while he sat in underwear soaked in cum. Then, at the very first opportune moment, I yet again announced that I wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He was really sweet and asked if there was anything he could get me. Hmmm, maybe just a towel? For yourself? So you could WIPE THE CUM OFF OF YOUR PANTS, YOU FREAK!
I ran out of his place as quickly as possible, immediately met my girlfriend for a beer, and regaled the story of my very own Marathon Man, who came in his pants while making out with me - fully clothed.
[RAZZY Note: This post was written by JerseyGirl, as those of you who were like "wait a second, since when has Razzy been a TV news producer?" probably deduced, although in fairness I do share her weakness for print journalists that like sports. She e-mailed it to me because ho probably forgot her Blogger login or something. That's okay, since she posts as "Annimal" and not "JerseyGirl" because SOMEBODY didn't pay attention when told "set up your Blogger account using your Razzy name as your username." Anyway, I know it says "Posted by Razzy" but this was actually written by JerseyGirl, so give credit where credit's due. The quickest draw I've ever been with at least managed to get his pants off and get his dick in the vicinity of my vagina before anything like what happened above transpired. Either I select men with more stamina, or I turn guys on way less than JerseyGirl does. Your call.]
Labels: gross, JerseyGirl, real-life rejects, scathing indictments, sex, weiners
Daily Douchebag: Katherine Heigl AGAIN
DOB: November 24, 1978
Occupation: soon-to-be former star of the despicable shitshow known as "Grey's Anatomy"
Hometown: New Canaan, Connecticut
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Today Katherine Heigl gets her second douchebagging, and joins such two-time d-bag luminaries as Jessica Simpson, the New England Patriots, John Mayer and his dick, and Hulk Hogan's asshole kid. Previously I took issue with the fact that Katherine Heigl wouldn't shut her big facehole complaining about how her character on "Gay's Shitnatomy" was an adulterous ho and Knocked Up--the film which arguably gave her a movie career--was sexist. I realized yesterday that I had not fully exorcised my hatred for Katherine Heigl the first time around after CorporateCard sent me a link to this article from Gawker about how the writers of "Grey's Anatomy" hate her so much they've given her shit material, and I was discussing this with former "Gay's" fan JerseyGirl:
Razzy: here's something to entertain youAnd there you have it. Even JerseyGirl--a girl who once made a famously unsuccessful effort to convince me that a Christmas tree lighting at some old Smith alumna's Park Avenue penthouse was a better use of my Sunday than watching week 14 of hot NFL action--has no love for Katherine Heigl. If JerseyGirl, who is the exact kind of woman in the demographic Katherine Heigl is trying to appeal to (namely, bitches who do things like get tickets to special screenings of Music and Lyrics and send me invitations to Facebook applications like "What Sex and the City character are you?") hates Katherine Heigl for being an intolerable snatch, then Dr. Izzie Skankface or whatever better deflate her ego a little bit. If Katherine Heigl wants to continue movie career that has thus far given her the idea she's too good for the shitshow that made her famous, she should stop doing things like withdrawing herself from Emmy consideration and blaming the writers and otherwise making herself look like the world's most unlikable ingrate. Granted, I'd rather let one of my neighborhood crackheads buttfuck me with a splintery broom handle than watch 27 Dresses as it lacks the three elements of a truly great film (murder, explosions, and people getting fucked), but I've been told that some women enjoy romantic comedies about being a bridesmaid, and those women don't like whining shrews who take their success for granted.
Razzy: http://gawker.com/tag/theories/?i=396286&t=is-katherine-heigl-being-sabotaged-by-greys-anatomy-writers
Razzy: katherine heigl is such a slag
JerseyGirl: that is so funny/true
JerseyGirl: i hate her
Razzy: she is just awful
Razzy: she strikes me as the world's biggest biatch
Razzy: i hope that she gets fired from "grey's anatomy" and winds up working the straight-to-dvd circuit hard
Razzy: ideally she would not even appeal to types like you, who like shit like "gay's shitnatomy" and "27 dresses"
JerseyGirl: i used to watch grey's the first couple seasons when it was good - but her character is INSUFFERABLE
JerseyGirl: like awful
JerseyGirl: she is the WORST
Razzy:: dude as you know i was never into grey's anatomy
Razzy: and i used to be okay with katherine heigl because she had a hot rack
Razzy: but once she started getting "famous" for her dumb character
Razzy: and i got a look at her personality
Razzy: i was like
Razzy: NO. THANK. YOU.
Razzy: FAIL, Katherine Heigl!
JerseyGirl: haha cereally
JerseyGirl: she just llooks so annoying
Razzy: she always looks like she's about to start bitching at whoever crosses her path
Razzy: like i can just hear what a nasal, whiny nag she is
Razzy: every time i see her picture i can almost hear her bossing me around
JerseyGirl: i know... me too. she sux
I enjoy all these theories about how Katherine Heigl is engaging the "Grey's Anatomy" writers in a game of media whore cat-and-mouse, pretending to withdraw from Emmy consideration as some grand magnanimous gesture to the other actresses in the field, while the writers are leaking stories about how they supposedly made her character suck just because she's an obnoxious cow and they hate her. It sounds to me like Katherine Heigl wants to be fired so she can continue trying desperately to be the next Julia Roberts, which I am completely unsupportive of, as the world could do without the original Julia Roberts. I say to the writers of "Grey's Anatomy" (who I also hate, simply because they are partially responsible for the existence of "Grey's Anatomy") to keep her there. The longer Katherine Heigl is on "Grey's Anatomy," the longer my local theater can show awesome movies like AVP: Requiem (SO underrated) instead of 27 Dresses and other movies about dumb, socially inept women looking for a boyfriend or whatever. If I want to see shit about some girl lacking the skills to get the one guy she really secretly likes while her friends all couple up around her, I'll look in the fucking mirror! I like myself a whole lot better than Katherine Heigl, and I'm funnier too.
I hope that Katherine Heigl's movie career goes the way of David Caruso's when she inevitably leaves "Grey's Anatomy" amidst a great deal of bad blood. I can't wait for her to be unemployed with nary a script to review because the movie-watching public is so seriously over her, while "Gay's Shitnatomy" skyrockets in the ratings coincident with her departure. Hell, I will even watch that trash just to stick it to Katherine Heigl, and considering that merely catching a glimpse of Patrick Dempsey in a set of surgical scrubs makes me wish I owned a handgun, that's saying a lot. Katherine Heigl is the biggest cunt ever recorded on film, and I hope that her career tanks so hard that in a couple years the only work she can get is a stint on "Celebrity Rehab." Seriously, even Tori Spelling Lifetime movies are too good for this detestable bitch.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, Grey's Anatomy, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Tapatio
DOB: 1971
Occupation: Es una salsa...muy salsa!
Hometown: Maywood, California
Current residence: Vernon, California and the "Mexican/Latin" aisle at a grocery store near you
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Tapatio is the best fucking hot sauce in the world. I am also a fan of Marie Sharp's, but if I had to choose between the two, I think Tapatio would win (although in fairness, this is probably only because I haven't found a convenient grocery store or bodega that sells Marie Sharp's, and that's a pity, because it is the chronic shit). I also like dipping my Mexi-Fries (AKA deep-fried tater tots with seasoning salt) in the not-hot "hot sauce" that the P-N-Dub's greatest fast food chain Taco Time offers as a condiment, but TRUST that as there aren't any Taco Times outside of Washington and Oregon, I don't have a supply of Taco Time hot sauce on hand. Tapatio is in any grocery store here, usually in several sizes next to all the Goya products.
I realized this the other night when I was making some tacos and I ran out of Tapatio. Not having any Marie Sharp's handy as a backup, I went to the bodega down the street from my house where they only sell Tabasco and Trappey's Red Devil. Since I know I hate Tabasco, I went with the Red Devil. After eating two Red Devil tacos, I realized that compared to Tapatio, almost every hot sauce in the world is complete and utter trash. As Tapatio's slogan admits, it's a saucy that's very saucy. Despite what its diabolical name would lead one to believe, Red Devil lacks any sauciness or zest. In fact, I thought it was pretty damn mild and it made my taco-eating experience considerably less pleasurable.
Tapatio should be available as readily as ketchup or A1 steak sauce in New York City's bodegas. Not having it puts a considerable damper in my taco enjoyment. In fact, the next time I run out of Tapatio, I'm just going to save the tacos for a time when I can get my hands on some. Tacos without Tapatio are like anal sex without lube. You just have no business fooling with that, and if you do, you'll gravely regret it.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gluttony, NYC, Razzification
Monday, June 16, 2008
Continue the smears
LL Cool Jew pointed out last week that Barack Obama has a site dedicated to correcting all the idiotic lies that "proven GOP sleazemeisters" in the media are making up about him entitled "Fight the Smears."
This site refutes claims that ignorant, racist morons believe about Barack Obama, like he is supposedly Muslim, is secretly not American, doesn't say the Pledge of Allegiance, Michelle Obama is racist, and other absurd nonsense like that.
Barack Obama got vocal cord implants which is why he sounds like a motivational speaker
I and the R. Kelly defense team told you that, per the now-infamous "Shaggy Defense," it wasn't Kells. You caught him on the counter? It wasn't Kells. You saw him bangin' on the sofa? It wasn't Kells. He even hit it in the shower? It wasn't Kells...it was BARACK OBAMA! Case closed!
This is fun and I could continue this all day, but I have to get to lab. Luckily, there's enough dumbasses out there to ensure that my new totally made-up charges will be discussed on cable news for the next week. I can just see the pundits on FOX News now, discussing how "a blogger charges that Obama may be the man in the R. Kelly sex tape" or "questions have come up on the blogosphere about Michelle Obama's possible adulterous leanings" or whatever. God bless the stupidity of the average American, because I'm going to be swimming in traffic and laughing all the way to the damn bank. I hope for change in my pocketses, and that's exactly what Barack Obama is going to give to me. Thank you, Senator Obama!
This site refutes claims that ignorant, racist morons believe about Barack Obama, like he is supposedly Muslim, is secretly not American, doesn't say the Pledge of Allegiance, Michelle Obama is racist, and other absurd nonsense like that.
LL Cool Jew: dude
LL Cool Jew: THIS
LL Cool Jew: is amazing
LL Cool Jew: http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/fightthesmearshome/
LL Cool Jew: i mean
LL Cool Jew: wow
Razzy: people are so dumb
LL Cool Jew: i bet my relatives are the ones saying this shit
LL Cool Jew: "Proven GOP sleazemeister "
Razzy: "Senator Obama was sworn in with a Koran"
Razzy: "Barack Obama won't say the pledge of allegiance"
LL Cool Jew: dude i'm totz looking at senator obama's birth certificate
LL Cool Jew: maybe we can open a credit card account in his name?
Razzy: YES!
Razzy: then i can go to wmania's wedding!
Razzy: courtesy of losing presidential candidate barack obama!
LL Cool Jew: damn. script too small.
Razzy: no SSN either
Razzy: :(
LL Cool Jew: View video of Barack leading The Pledge of Allegiance in the United States Senate
LL Cool Jew: is this boy scouts????
LL Cool Jew: Barack Obama Loves His Flag and His Country
Razzy: well i can't see him putting his hand over his heart!
Razzy: maybe i should insinuate on my website that he hates freedom and America
Razzy: and then Obama's site can call me a "proven GOP sleazemeister"
Razzy: and i'll get lots of traffic and thus money!
Yes, the anti-Obama smear campaign and its acceptance by the legions of idiots who will believe anything so long as it caters to their latent bigoted paranoia sounds to me like KA-CHING! Seriously, joining the ranks of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" is a golden opportunity to pick up some unique hits! GOP sleazemeisters do well these days, and as am I both voting for the hotness known as Senator John McCain (R-AZ) and I am a total breast-baring skank, I think I fit the bill for the titles of both "GOP" and "sleazemeister." So, without further ado, I'm going to fight Senator Barack Obama's efforts to clear his good name by making up even more ridiculous bullshit.
Barack Obama has a pointy pelvis and fucking him is really uncomfortable.
LL Cool Jew noted that this isn't necessarily a smear, because it's "probz true." I can assert that it is, because for whatever reason, tall, skinny guys usually have huge dicks and I've fucked a lot of them. However, that impressive weiner comes with a price: namely, afterward you feel like someone drilled holes into your hip sockets. Obama's got that going on for sure.
Barack Obama got vocal cord implants which is why he sounds like a motivational speaker
Every time someone tells me that Barack Obama is so inspirational, I just roll my eyes because his voice drives me nuts. However, the Obamaniacs think that he's the Pied Piper of Stump Speeches, so something's going on there. With the way he used to smoke like an Industrial Revolution-era textile mill, his real voice probably sounds like psychic Sylvia Browne from "The Montel Williams Show." In fact, check out Sylvia predicting political and economic happenings in 2007...I wonder if she actually IS Barack Obama in disguise without his vocal modifiers and with a bitchin' set of gel tips:
Michelle Obama loves white people...on the side
As long as it's cool for the GOP sleazemeisters to say that Michelle Obama gives speeches involving the term "whitey," we might as well just go the extra mile and say that she's fucking white people as well as disparaging them. Note the come-hither look she's throwing at Stephen Colbert. They're totally doing it.
A video exists of Michelle Obama having sex with Ray-J
LL Cool Jew came up with this one, as although she isn't a "GOP sleazemeister," she's even worse: an embittered Hillary supporter! After hearing T-Pain admit that "the man is swangin'" with regard to Ray-J's equipment, Michelle Obama answered affirmatively to his "Sexy Can I?" query. Ray-J likes those old cougars, anyway. Frankly, Michelle Obama is an upgrade from his previous MILF Whitney Houston. It's only a matter of time before Vivid releases "Michelle Obama Superstar" to the internets.
LL Cool Jew came up with this one, as although she isn't a "GOP sleazemeister," she's even worse: an embittered Hillary supporter! After hearing T-Pain admit that "the man is swangin'" with regard to Ray-J's equipment, Michelle Obama answered affirmatively to his "Sexy Can I?" query. Ray-J likes those old cougars, anyway. Frankly, Michelle Obama is an upgrade from his previous MILF Whitney Houston. It's only a matter of time before Vivid releases "Michelle Obama Superstar" to the internets.
There is a tape of Barack Obama asking anyone if they'll run to the deli and grab him a sandwich. The deli happens to be halal.
Duh, Obama is MUSLIM! Okay, maybe he's a fake-me-out Muslim, sort of like Ice Cube getting excited for his mama cooking the breakfast with no hog but otherwise observing no Islamic customs, but I think we all know what it means to eat at a halal deli...it means you're Muslim! And we all know that means "terrorist"! Oh crap, I ate an egg-and-cheese sandwich from my neighborhood halal deli the other day...fuck. Nevermind.
Duh, Obama is MUSLIM! Okay, maybe he's a fake-me-out Muslim, sort of like Ice Cube getting excited for his mama cooking the breakfast with no hog but otherwise observing no Islamic customs, but I think we all know what it means to eat at a halal deli...it means you're Muslim! And we all know that means "terrorist"! Oh crap, I ate an egg-and-cheese sandwich from my neighborhood halal deli the other day...fuck. Nevermind.
Barack Obama fucked Gina Gershon.
And who wants a President content with Bill Clinton's sloppy seconds? NOT ME, even if Gina Gershon is the greatest portrayer of lipstick lesbians in Hollywood history and star of two of Smith College's favorite movies ever, Bound and Showgirls. Speaking of Showgirls, I bet Nomy was way hotter in the sack than Barack.
And who wants a President content with Bill Clinton's sloppy seconds? NOT ME, even if Gina Gershon is the greatest portrayer of lipstick lesbians in Hollywood history and star of two of Smith College's favorite movies ever, Bound and Showgirls. Speaking of Showgirls, I bet Nomy was way hotter in the sack than Barack.
Barack Obama spends a lot of time playing "one-on-one" with his assistant Reggie Love.
Thanks to that dude who wrote that expose about "the DL," everyone knows what "poker night" is all about these days, and it's not just a spirited game of Texas Hold 'Em. They play "stud" and it's got nothing to do with cards. Since that's out now, the new down low lingo is "one on one." As in, one on one, I want to play that game tonight in the Daryl Hall/John Oates context. Translation: SODOMY!
Thanks to that dude who wrote that expose about "the DL," everyone knows what "poker night" is all about these days, and it's not just a spirited game of Texas Hold 'Em. They play "stud" and it's got nothing to do with cards. Since that's out now, the new down low lingo is "one on one." As in, one on one, I want to play that game tonight in the Daryl Hall/John Oates context. Translation: SODOMY!
Barack Obama claims his pets as dependents on his tax returns, which he won't release.
I don't even know if Barack Obama has pets, and supposedly he HAS released his tax returns, but trust that most of the folks reading the works of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" don't know that! And like they're going to read his tax returns anyway, except possibly to perpetrate some of the dumbest identity theft schemes in the history of crime.
I don't even know if Barack Obama has pets, and supposedly he HAS released his tax returns, but trust that most of the folks reading the works of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" don't know that! And like they're going to read his tax returns anyway, except possibly to perpetrate some of the dumbest identity theft schemes in the history of crime.
Barack Obama hates baseball, Bruce Springsteen, domestic lagers, and apple pie
Hey, if you'll believe that he agrees with his minister that AIDS and crack are government conspiracies and the traditional African outfit his grandfather gave him is evidence of his extreme Black Panther-style radicalism, you'll believe anything!
Hey, if you'll believe that he agrees with his minister that AIDS and crack are government conspiracies and the traditional African outfit his grandfather gave him is evidence of his extreme Black Panther-style radicalism, you'll believe anything!
Barack Obama loves belly dancing, Moroccan food, and reruns of "Sleeper Cell"
If you see this in someone's DVD collection, I think it's safe to go ahead and call "terrorist." In fact, if it weren't for my love of "Weeds" and "Dexter," I'd boycott Showtime altogether. Well, by "boycott" I mean I'd quit illegally downloading their shows, but same difference. Those "Sleeper Cell" terrorists are kind of hot, though. I think that guy on the right was in Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and I'd close my eyes, pretend he's American instead of an Islamist evildoer, and hit that hard. Oh, wait, he's Israeli in real life? Well, hell, that's still as un-American as BARACK HUSSEIN OSAMA!
If you see this in someone's DVD collection, I think it's safe to go ahead and call "terrorist." In fact, if it weren't for my love of "Weeds" and "Dexter," I'd boycott Showtime altogether. Well, by "boycott" I mean I'd quit illegally downloading their shows, but same difference. Those "Sleeper Cell" terrorists are kind of hot, though. I think that guy on the right was in Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and I'd close my eyes, pretend he's American instead of an Islamist evildoer, and hit that hard. Oh, wait, he's Israeli in real life? Well, hell, that's still as un-American as BARACK HUSSEIN OSAMA!
When Barack Obama saw Rachael Ray wearing Yasser Arafat's keffiyeh on TV, he went out and bought a shit-ton of Dunkin Donuts
Someone told me that after this commercial aired, Obama maxed out his credit card at Urban Outfitters buying keffiyehs for his entire staff because Rachael Ray's freedom-hating was so inspiring to him. He also started tossing around the idea of providing a lifetime supply of Munchkins for anyone who votes for his terror ticket. I'm glad his staff talked him down from that, because I might forsake John McCain if offered enough complimentary Dunkin Donuts swag. Their iced coffee is the chronic, even if it's the choice beverage of freedom-haters everywhere.
Someone told me that after this commercial aired, Obama maxed out his credit card at Urban Outfitters buying keffiyehs for his entire staff because Rachael Ray's freedom-hating was so inspiring to him. He also started tossing around the idea of providing a lifetime supply of Munchkins for anyone who votes for his terror ticket. I'm glad his staff talked him down from that, because I might forsake John McCain if offered enough complimentary Dunkin Donuts swag. Their iced coffee is the chronic, even if it's the choice beverage of freedom-haters everywhere.
Malia Obama will only play with Muslim Barbies
Not only does she play with Muslim Barbies, I bet she doesn't make all her Barbies lesbians like mine were (owing to a shortage of Ken dolls more than my latent girl-on-girl desires but ANYWAY...that's another story).
Not only does she play with Muslim Barbies, I bet she doesn't make all her Barbies lesbians like mine were (owing to a shortage of Ken dolls more than my latent girl-on-girl desires but ANYWAY...that's another story).
Barack Obama got the "Ba" added to his first name to make something hot-sounding like "Rack" sound more lame and terroristy, because those JIHADISTS HATE BOOBS AND WOMEN
He totally identified with Alfred Molina's wife-beating Iranian gynecologist from that movie, too. You know he did.
And speaking of misogyny, Barack Obama tried to get Reading Lolita in Tehran banned from public libraries because he thinks Iran rules.
And speaking of misogyny, Barack Obama tried to get Reading Lolita in Tehran banned from public libraries because he thinks Iran rules.
LL Cool Jew told me that he hates on The Kite Runner something serious, too.
In keeping with his Persophilia, Barack Obama reads Ahmadinejad's blog every day and believes the Holocaust is a myth. Moreover, he wants to reopen Buchenwald in Boca Raton, Florida.
In keeping with his Persophilia, Barack Obama reads Ahmadinejad's blog every day and believes the Holocaust is a myth. Moreover, he wants to reopen Buchenwald in Boca Raton, Florida.
I can't really fault him for the Ahmadinejad's blog-reading, because that shit is hilarious. However, the whole Holocaust myth business is pretty shady, as is that business about wanting to reopen concentration camps in the U.S. of A. LL Cool Jew told me that, and she's my resident Druish expert, so it's got to be one of the gravest true lies I'm advocating here. From there, it's just a short intellectual leap to OBAMA IS A NAZI! Yes, a terrorist Muslim Nazi! TRUST.
Barack Obama only ran for the U.S. Senate AFTER he was rejected by Hamas for suicide bombing detail.
Barack Obama only ran for the U.S. Senate AFTER he was rejected by Hamas for suicide bombing detail.
That's Obama in militant suicide bomber drag at his audition. He decided not to go the pretend woman route once he embarked on his career in U.S. politics, because all the people who will believe the bullshit I'm writing here now hate so hard on the gays. It was a wise move.
Barack Obama is actually the urinating man known only by the moniker "daddy" from the infamous sex tape that was the impetus for R. Kelly's child porn trial
Barack Obama is actually the urinating man known only by the moniker "daddy" from the infamous sex tape that was the impetus for R. Kelly's child porn trial
I and the R. Kelly defense team told you that, per the now-infamous "Shaggy Defense," it wasn't Kells. You caught him on the counter? It wasn't Kells. You saw him bangin' on the sofa? It wasn't Kells. He even hit it in the shower? It wasn't Kells...it was BARACK OBAMA! Case closed!
This is fun and I could continue this all day, but I have to get to lab. Luckily, there's enough dumbasses out there to ensure that my new totally made-up charges will be discussed on cable news for the next week. I can just see the pundits on FOX News now, discussing how "a blogger charges that Obama may be the man in the R. Kelly sex tape" or "questions have come up on the blogosphere about Michelle Obama's possible adulterous leanings" or whatever. God bless the stupidity of the average American, because I'm going to be swimming in traffic and laughing all the way to the damn bank. I hope for change in my pocketses, and that's exactly what Barack Obama is going to give to me. Thank you, Senator Obama!
Labels: Barack Obama, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, media whores, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Lil' Wayne
DOB: September 27, 1982
Occupation: the hottest rapper in the game
Hometown: Hollygrove, New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: When not in jail, New Orleans, Louisiana
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I used to be very anti-Lil' Wayne, primarily because I was a Juvenile loyalist. LL Cool Jew was always trying to bump some Lil' Wayne and I'd bitch that Weezy wasn't all that. Besides, I was distracted by his latently homoerotic adventures (like makeout seshes with his adopted father Birdman, inherently gay XXL magazine covers, and leaked alternate album covers featuring his drag cosmetic skills). Not that I have a problem with Lil' Wayne possibly being gay, but I got so caught up speculating about this that I didn't pay as much attention as I should have to facts that Lil' Wayne himself has pointed out, for example, "I'm a god, and this is what I bless em with."
Well, over the past year, Lil' Wayne has really grown on me musically. LL Cool Jew and I were discussing this a while back, and I have to give her partial credit for bringing me around.
LL Cool Jew: "I don't do too many [drugs]. I just smoke weed and drink. But I'll never fuck with no more coke. It's not about the bad high; it's just about the acne: Cocaine makes your face break out. I'm a pretty boy."
LL Cool Jew:- Lil' Wayne tells New York magazine
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: quote of the day
LL Cool Jew: awesome
Razzy: i love lil wayne
Razzy: i'm oddly obsessed with him
Razzy: there's something really hilarious about him
LL Cool Jew: dude welcome to the club!
LL Cool Jew: member when you always used to hate on him
LL Cool Jew: i know you made the change yourself
Razzy: yes i did!
LL Cool Jew: but i have to take a tiny tiny tiny bit of credit
LL Cool Jew: i must
Razzy: of course
LL Cool Jew: i think perhaps my newly nolified lifestyle helped
Razzy: after hilarious mug shot after mug shot, i caved
LL Cool Jew: i'm pretty excited about it
Razzy: well i was always on "team juve"
LL Cool Jew: all that matters is that we are once again on the same team
LL Cool Jew: i love juve too
Razzy: in terms of my post-ca$h money allegiances
LL Cool Jew: shout out to the old cash money members
Razzy: but now i can't be bothered with their beef
Razzy: i love them both
LL Cool Jew: after all.
LL Cool Jew: it's irresistible!
Razzy: and i love how birdman makes that "cawing" sound in addition to his signature "brrrrr"!
LL Cool Jew: caw CAW
LL Cool Jew: it's sort of a rip on afroman's signature "ba-GOCK"
Razzy: totally
Razzy: but it's more the sound that a gull circling around would make
Razzy: as opposed to a cock strutting around the barnyard
When I was in New Orleans visiting LL Cool Jew last week, the "Lollipop" remix was constantly on the radio. In a testament to how awesome this song is, I didn't even detect the presence of the detestable Kanye West singing the first verse (thank you, "rapper ternt sanga" T-Pain, for making auto-tuner effects requisite in all contemporary rap music), and once I discovered that this is who is Lil' Weezy's collaborator, I am not even put off as I typically am by anything involving Kanye West. Even Kanye West can't ruin lines like "if that woman wanna cut, then call me Mr. Ointment" and "better wear a latex, because you don't want that late text, that 'I think I'm late' text." I only even barely rolled my eyes when Lil' Wayne proclaimed "no homo" at the beginning of the song. I made it my first order of business upon returning to New York to download the freshly dropped Tha Carter Vol. III and jam to it whenever possible.
Although I don't necessarily agree with Lil' Wayne that "he's so sweet" it will compel me to "lick the rapper," I have to cease and desist with any residual Lil' Wayne hating because Tha Carter Vol. III is the fucking shit and a half and I've seen the error of my ways. Lil' Wayne is hysterically funny and I advise you all to go make an appointment with Mr. I Can't Make an Appointment and illegally download it immediately. Just to demonstrate the awesomeness you can expect from a typical Tha Carter Vol. III jam, here is Lil' Wayne's collabo with none other than my second-favorite R&B thug in the world, the equally hilarious Faheem "T-Pain" Najm, singing something about getting money, showing it off to those hanging over the VIP line, and needing a Winn-Dixie grocery bag full of it.
I don't know why Lil' Wayne has girls' boyfriends' hating like a city cop, except for the fact that by own his admission, he "blow that shit, cause bitch, I'm the bomb like tick tick. Yeah!"
Labels: Birdman, Cash Money, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, Lil' Wayne, LL Cool Jew, rap
Daily Douchebag: Tila Tequila
DOB: October 24, 1981
Occupation: MySpace and reality TV whore
Hometown: Alief, Texas via Singapore via Vietnam
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: The other day, Tila Tequila was enjoying all the perks of being a Q-list media whore, like tickets to the premiere of The Love Guru. While walking the red carpet alongside luminaries like Verne Troyer and the Stanley Cup, Tila decided to take credit for the California Supreme Court's recent decision to legalize gay marriage.
“It is because of me. I definitely think (my show) has helped the movement,” Tequila told Us Weekly at the Hollywood premiere of “The Love Guru” on Wednesday.Yes, I am sure that while deliberating the finer nuances of constitutional law in their chambers, the highest court in America's most populous state tipped the scales in gay marriage's favor by watching a bunch of trashy strippers wrestle in a vat of pudding in hope of winning the chance to swap herpes lesion exudate with MySpace's skankiest faux bisexual on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." I'm sure that watching Tila climbing into a communal bed with a troupe of pole-rubbing hoochies or giving lap dances to their dear old grandmas really mitigated any apprehension about the consequences of letting the homos file joint tax returns and or having the same spousal rights as those afforded to heterosexual married couples. Clearly, California's Supreme Court justices realized how discriminatory it is to prevent gay people the same legal status as their heterosexual counterparts thanks to being titillated by an exploitative shitshow that uses Tila's supposed lesbian tendencies as an excuse for an unabashedly fame-starved slut to make out with girls on TV. The queers of California are in your fucking debt, Tila Tequila.
“Before it came out, everyone was still a little apprehensive about (same sex relationships),” she said. “Then they realized, ‘Wow, everyone is really into this stuff, and it is fine.’ The next thing you know, (gay marriage) is legal.”
Seriously, who the fuck does this dumb slag think she is? First off, Tila's original "Shot at Love" ended with her choosing the dude to get with over Dani, the Floridian firefighter who had all my superfemme lesbian friends in a huge tizzy over her Converse-Izod chic sexiness. Second, rumor has it that Tila Tequila isn't even gay. I believe this, because not only did she dump the aforementioned Dani (who was WAY less douchetastic than the guy Tila chose and promptly ditched in order to secure a second season of unrealistic reality sluttery on MTV), she acts like she's bored with all the girls on the show all the time and never presses her advantage to get some poon. Kissing girls is no big deal, and almost every girl I know has done it at one point or another. It's a given that Tila is an infamous slut, so one would think that if she's really bisexual, tuna tacos would be on the menu every night at the "Shot at Love" house. If I were in Tila's shoes with 30 girls and boys all trying to get with me, I'd be the world's most voracious seafood and sausage aficionado, but Tila doesn't do much besides smooch and act like she's some sort of sophisticated dignitary who just happens to wear lucite stilettos with pleather midriff-baring strapless minidresses and enjoys making her suitors compete in sexually charged "Double Dare"-esque physical challenges for her affections.
Tila Tequila needs to stick with what she knows, specifically, picking tacky dresses off the clearance rack at Rave that showcase her cheaply augmented tits and maintaining her dominance of the MySpace whore circuit. She is not doing ANYTHING for the gay marriage movement except associating it unfairly with vapid attention-craving tramps like herself. I have one word for Tila Tequila, and that is STFU!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, media whores, MySpace, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Sunday, June 15, 2008
John Kass can go fuck himself in his hater ass
As buoyant as my spirits have been since June 13th, 2008, when the American court system produced the greatest triumph in the history of criminal justice (Robert Sylvester Kelly's NOT GUILTY verdict on all 14 of the bullshit counts of child pornography he was charged with), I just read an article that really pissed me off. John Kass, a columnist at the Chicago Tribune, penned a craptastic piece of garbage today entitled "R. Kelly verdict adds to his lawyers' list of greatest hits."
Kass then goes on to suggest that the men on the jury were a bunch of misogynistic pigs who weren't thinking of their female family members when they concluded that reasonable doubt existed. Surely if they had any modicum of decency or respect for women, they would want to convict R. Kelly just because they should share John Kass's paranoia that a big scary black man like Kells might despoil their daughters.
After these baseless, idiotic claims providing nothing save the knowledge that John Kass considers Kells guilty even after being proven innocent, he then goes to provide even more damning evidence. In addition to the notorious media mogul-turned-mail fraud perpetrator Conrad Black and drunken Walgreen's trespasser Shia LaBoeuf, Kells's attorneys have represented mob bosses, assassins, and murdered informants. Surely with such an unsavory client list under their belts, R. Kelly's legal dream team must have represented only guilty people. Ergo, R. Kelly must be guilty too. John Kass really has to stretch to find whatever dubious circumstantial evidence he can rework into a suspicious context, even if it means suggesting that R. Kelly's right to a vigorous defense alone proves his culpability.
After wading through several paragraphs of self-congratulatory attempts at coming up with catchy Cochran-esque rhymes like "If the mole's not a zit, you must acquit" and "If you don't see a mole, you must take a stroll," John Kass immediately launches into a deeply flawed analysis of how R. Kelly--portrayed as a certainly guilty dirtbag--was acquitted thanks to his dirtbag lawyers, who have built careers on releasing also assuredly guilty dirtbag mob hitmen back onto the streets to terrorize the Windy City.
Chicago R&B star R. Kelly—who also calls himself "The Pied Piper"—was acquitted of child pornography charges because of a mole or the lack thereof on a grainy video.John Kass obviously doesn't put much stock in fact-checking, because not only does R. Kelly call himself "the Pied Piper OF R&B," the mole was not the central issue that decided this case for the jury. When the defense gave its closing arguments, they pointed out that the prosecution had failed to identify the girl in the sex tape. If you can't prove the identity of the alleged victim, then you can't prove her age, and you can't prove that the tape constitutes child pornography. The jury actually cited the prosecution's failure to establish the alleged victim's identity as the primary reason why they acquitted Kells after only seven hours of deliberation. John Kass either doesn't think very highly of his Tribune colleagues' accurate reporting of the trial, or is so simply determined to hate a player that he is willing to overlook the fact that while neither the girl or her parents testified in the trial, both denied that the alleged victim was the girl on the tape before a grand jury in 2002 and the alleged victim's family were deeply divided regarding whether or not she was the girl from the tape. He also ignores the fact that the prosecution's star witness, "the woman" he mentions involved in the "plethora of perversions" (threesomes on R. Kelly's Space Jam-themed indoor basketball court), was largely discredited by the defense for attempting to extort Kells into buying her silence and to get leniency for her fiance who was facing felony gun charges.
The mole or mole deficit was a big issue in the trial. A tape of purported sex acts and a plethora of perversions involved a minor, a woman, and a man prosecutors said was Kelly. Defense lawyers said it wasn't a mole on the tape, therefore, it wasn't their client.
John Kass gets worse. He then goes on to mock R. Kelly's art, and suggests that the melodic ambrosia better known as his next album will include songs gloating about his undeserved freedom and hoodwinking of the justice system:
But now that he has been acquitted, he'll probably release a new album, titled "Mole-ishus: Daddy's Home!" Apparently, he loves being called "Daddy," and because he's being hailed as In-no-¢ent, what better way to celebrate Kelly's freedom than with song?Again, John Kass, if you had bothered to do the quickest of Google searches you would know that his next album is actually called TP: Fourth Quarter, and the obviously sublime (if the first single "Hair Braider" is any indication) tracks for this most recent installment in Kells's seminal Twelve Play series have already been laid down in the Chocolate Factory. They probably don't have anything to do with his trial, except to possibly excoriate haters like John Kass who are unfairly persecuting R. Kelly via media trickery and legal shenanigans. Furthermore, while in some R. Kelly songs he does answer to the term "daddy," if the lyrics to "I'm a Flirt" can be considered a reliable exploration into Kells's preferred pillow talk terms, he also makes women call him by his actual name since after a tryst with him, they tend to slip up and call their significant others "Kelly" when their name is "Tommy." Furthermore, as long as he's mining R. Kelly songs for pro-child fucking themes, he could at least acknowledge lines like "show me some ID before we get too deep" which indicate that R. Kelly complies with laws defining the age of consent. John Kass thinks that he is so goddamned funny that his readers won't notice that he has no grounds for implying with that strategically placed "¢ent" that R. Kelly bought his freedom in spite of overwhelming evidence of his guilt. There IS no evidence, and that's why John Kass has to resort to using punctuation and bad parodies of the R-uh in R&B's lyrical genius.
Kass then goes on to suggest that the men on the jury were a bunch of misogynistic pigs who weren't thinking of their female family members when they concluded that reasonable doubt existed. Surely if they had any modicum of decency or respect for women, they would want to convict R. Kelly just because they should share John Kass's paranoia that a big scary black man like Kells might despoil their daughters.
Nine men were part of the R. Kelly Jury of Liberation. You've got to think some have daughters, or sisters, or nieces who are young teenagers. If not, let's just think on it a piece, in a parallel universe.It never occurred to John Kass that the jury was actually going to do its job and decide R. Kelly's fate based on the evidence rather than a groundless sense of protectiveness toward their female family members. Instead, he'd rather paint a portrait of an alternate universe in which R. Kelly is having a creepy pedophile tea party and children justify flocking there by quoting chronologically inaccurate butchered "Ignition (Remix)" lyrics (come on, idiot...after the show it's the afterparty, and after the party it's the hotel lobby, and round about four you gotta the lobby and then you take it to your room to fuck somebody) to their ironically unhappy chauvinist pig juror fathers powerless to do anything except ruin dinner. Shut the fuck up, John Kass. Your lame fantasies about how the jurors should reap their ironic karmic reward for not ignoring evidence of reasonable doubt and participating in a legal lynching of R. Kelly do nothing save make the Chicago Tribune look like a shitty paper for employing witless demagogues like yourself as columnists.
Consider the daughter of a juror, coming up to dad in the back yard, humming "I Believe I Can Fly" as pops finishes grilling several thick steaks. And maybe, she asks:
"Daddy? Can I go over to the R. Kelly's Acquittal After Party? You know what R. Kelly says. He says, 'It starts in the hotel lobby, and then on to the after party.' "
That's about time the old man stabs the steak with a fork about 52 times, saying "No. No. No. No. No!," leaving it dry and tasteless as his princess goes off to hang with the Pied Piper, acquitted on all 14 counts with the aid of his stupendous defense team.
After these baseless, idiotic claims providing nothing save the knowledge that John Kass considers Kells guilty even after being proven innocent, he then goes to provide even more damning evidence. In addition to the notorious media mogul-turned-mail fraud perpetrator Conrad Black and drunken Walgreen's trespasser Shia LaBoeuf, Kells's attorneys have represented mob bosses, assassins, and murdered informants. Surely with such an unsavory client list under their belts, R. Kelly's legal dream team must have represented only guilty people. Ergo, R. Kelly must be guilty too. John Kass really has to stretch to find whatever dubious circumstantial evidence he can rework into a suspicious context, even if it means suggesting that R. Kelly's right to a vigorous defense alone proves his culpability.
I called this acquittal months ago on the grounds that there was no evidence to prove R. Kelly guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, and that was long before John Kass's own newspaper began publishing exhaustive accounts of the entire sordid legal drama. It's a pity that now, with all the information about the case and the trial at his disposal, John Kass is determined to spread the word that Kells is guilty even though a reasonable jury disagreed. Rather than give credence to facts supporting an acquittal, John Kass prefers to play on people's fears that R. Kelly will piss on their daughters simply because he wants to believe that R. Kelly is guilty. I can't help but wonder about John Kass's motives. If John Kass is so determined to manufacture non-existent evidence of R. Kelly's guilt, he must have some reason. In fact, I'd wager that there are two reasons.
1. This is John Kass:
2. This is Robert Sylvester Kelly:
John Kass is a fat, poorly-equipped newspaper columnist known primarily for his hatred of Chicago mayor Richard Daley and his love of beer can chicken who drives a Passat, while Kells is black, handsome, sings, plus is rich, and is a flirt. I don't have enough to time to document all the cars that Kells purports to drive, since his musical repertoire describes a veritable container ship's worth of automobiles in his garage. Needless to say, R. Kelly's fleet of Lexus coupes, Jeeps (which actually refers to luxury SUVs of all makes and models such as the silver Lexus parked outside his beach home that makes you think he's from the swamp the way he steps out with them gators on), Maseratis (color: smurf blue), Benzes, Rolls Royce Phantoms, Maybachs, Hummer Vees (see "Jeeps," supra), Cadillacs with D's thrown on them, and "old schools" makes John Kass's Passat look pretty pathetic.
I also doubt that John Kass has had the pleasure of doing things like having fun on the freakin' weekend, Cristal-poppin' in the stretch Navigator, having girls up in his room screaming "Hercules, Hercules!", making the room go black with his love jones, throwing hundreds up for grabs with mama, walking out the club with a shitload-a women, putting women on the counter by the buttered rolls, promising that it will be painless when he journeys to Uranus, or being frozen thanks to Jacob the Jeweler. John Kass is not a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall, he cannot remind you that he is the king of R&B, he doesn't require three honeys just to make him feel rizight, and nobody is running their hands through his fro while he bounces on twenty fours. John Kass isn't putting the D on chicks like Wallace, he isn't making anybody's body come like the CTA, he's not doubling up with two chicks both got dizzy legs, and he can't think of anything cooler than red bikinis and some pump-heel shoes while he's lounging around at his rule-free crib butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes. John Kass's voicemail does not suggest that he's sure to get right back with you if he's not asleep, smoking on some trees, in the middle of having sex, if he's not faded, or making a baby. John Kass is not in the Prada spot or the car lot being like "two of these, player." John Kass is not a marching band, and he is not the people. John Kass is not three's company, bitch, and you can't call him Jack Tripper. While John Kass has a club date, Kells is fucking with arenas. John Kass is jealous of R. Kelly, plain and simple. R. Kelly is a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor, as is the fact that John Kass is not. That's why John Kass is hating because Kells is about to fool like he's fresh out of jizail. John Kass does not have cash money, isn't rolling on them things, he isn't drunk off in the club, he's not a motherfucking thug, he's not smoking on some dro, he's not off that Ecstasy, he's not sipping on some Cris, and he's not throwing up his shit, so by definition he cannot possibly feel this shit.
John Kass owes Kells an apology for continuing to bastardize Kells lyrics and play on his readers' latent racist fears to smear him as a pedophile--excuse me, a child pornographer--even after the not guilty verdict was rendered. I'd advise John Kass to call up RSK at the Chocolate Factory and offer a personal mea culpa in exchange for some real talk along the lines of "bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes with your triflin' ass...Milton!" but if John Kass thinks Kells is screening calls he's motherfucking right. That's for the haters; Kells returns calls to all the girls he likes.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, legal drama, retard rage, Robert Sylvester Kelly, scathing indictments
Jesus would upstage all of our bitch asses
There is this crackhead couple that lives in my building, and they both drive me insane. The dude--who perpetually has a gigantic, purulent, oozing sore on his lip that I'm convinced is a herpes lesion amalgamated with a festering pipe burn--is always trying to tell me how to handle my dogs, and the chick is always hitting on me. Both are missing many teeth, smell, lack basic hygiene skills, act sketchy, and are basically what you would expect to see if you looked up "crackhead" in the dictionary. They are always trying to talk to me, and while I know I should tell them "fuck off, crackies," I simultaneously realize that they are pathetic crack addicts and I should have a more Christian attitude towards them.
However, the more I think about it, the more the prospect of having a more Christian attitude pisses me off. Surely if I asked myself "what would Jesus do?" when faced with a babbling, dentally challenged woman bobbing up and down like a fighting cock on meth speaking nonsense about the legendary beauty of my blonde hair (a favorite topic of hers is adulation of my Helen of Troy-esque looks, which just goes to show you how fucking delusional she is), he would not tell her to fuck off. The Gospels are replete with tales of Jesus befriending lepers, whores, tax collectors, the possessed (AKA schizophrenic and otherwise mentally ill), the blind, the deaf, the dumb, the lame (and by that I mean crippled), and anyone else who was an outcast way back when in Caesar Augustus-ruled Israel. Supposedly I'm to be nice and accepting to the crackheads, and invite them back to my apartment for a grilled cheese and a beer.
However, "what would Jesus do?" is a pretty fucking unfair standard. Unlike me, Jesus had the ability to take care of the whole crack addiction problem with a snap of his damn divine fingers. He didn't have to worry about being robbed blind by the crackheads he invited home for a number of reasons. All he had to do was order that pesky lust for crack into a herd of pigs, send them trotting off a cliff, and problem solved (although I bet the pig farmer didn't much appreciate seeing his annual income run squealing into the Sea of Galilee). Since he could instantly cure almost any socially repugnant malady, it was no big deal for Jesus to clean their asses up and invite the freshly cured and probably extremely grateful crackheads to wherever.
Furthermore, Jesus didn't have to worry about being a gracious host once those recently Christianized crackheads came over, since he could also conveniently turn water into wine and bust loaves and fishes out of his ass whenever he felt like it. Even if the crackheads hadn't completely gotten rid of their old habits of stealing and freeloading, Jesus could basically replace anything they ran off with because he had son-of-God skills. In fact, I went to Catholic school for twelve years and I've done a lot of Bible-reading in my time, and I can't think of a single Gospel account in which Jesus buys ANYTHING. Every time he needed something, whether it was more hooch at a rowdy Canaan wedding, snacks for the faithful at the OG Billy Graham crusade, or a convenient storm to prove his awesomeness to his boys when they doubted him, Jesus could make it happen. I can't make that happen efficiently enough to allow crackheads into my house.
Actually, Jesus didn't have to worry about crackheads fucking up his house since he DIDN'T SEEM TO HAVE ONE. No matter what you saw in The Passion of the Caviezel (including the part where Jesus supposedly invented the modern table), the Gospels don't say a damn word about where the hell Jesus actually hung his sandals. From what Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John tell me, Jesus was a damn homeless wandering hippie. So he could bring home all the strays and degenerates he wanted, because it was SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE! What the hell is it to Jesus and his non-materialistic ass if the crackheads of 33 A.D.-era Galilee trash Lazarus and his sisters' house? It's not his crap they're going to jack or destroy. It's not his hard-earned fishing money that they're going to burn through like a pound of schwag at a Phish concert. And if anyone complains about that, Jesus will just be like, "Why don't you go ask the fucking Jewish elders what I do when people get uptight about money? Those Pharisees are still pissed that I cost them like ten trillion shekels over at the temple/public marketplace when I got my righteous outrage on! And by the way, how dope was that when I ran around overturning tables? You wish you were born from a virgin womb, bitches." In other words, Jesus is an ungrateful hippie who feels entitled to do everything just because he CHOSE to be poor. For that matter, he chose to be crucified just to make a point. That whole "why have you forsaken me?" nonsense on the cross was just for dramatic effect. TRUST! Attention whore.
Now I'm probably going to hell for all this shit-talking about Jesus, and I'd like to say for the record that Jesus is still my Lord and Savior and all that. Judging by the company he kept, he clearly loved the skanky types, and if he could cure leprosy, I bet he could cure a mean case of the herp too (and I'm not one of the 26% of New Yorkers who have herpes, but that doesn't mean I couldn't be someday). Plus, he died for my sins, and I've done a lot of sinning, so I appreciate his efforts to put me in one of the nice Bosch paintings as opposed to the ones where random demons are shitting out souls who hate on JC. However, suggesting that I ask myself what the fuck Jesus would do with the crackheads is irrelevant, because that fucking granola-ass hippie would probably work some divine magic that I simply cannot do. I'd love to have the whole city over and be like, "who wants chips and salsa?" and pass around plates of the same that never exhausted themselves. I'd love to run around singlehandedly curing infectious diseases with mud and some Messianic hocus-pocus. I'd love to respond to capital punishment by springing out of my tomb after three days and be like, "HA, suckers! I bet you wish you asked Pontius Pilate to crucify Barabbas! Kiss my resurrected ass!" However, I have to avoid getting killed because I can't just sleep it off and pop out of my shroud and ascend to heaven amidst a big show for my followers. Even if I could rise from the dead, I can't send the average Razzyphile's drunken stupor into a herd of pigs, so my followers would probably be too hung over to show up at my tomb before dawn after a couple days with herbs and spices or whatever.
In other words, quit asking me to apply what Jesus would do to my life, because I can't do 99% of it. Therefore, the next time one of those crackheads tells me I'm beautiful or they like my dogs, I'm going to do what Razzy would do. Specifically, I'm going to tell them, "Look, I hate you both! NEVER talk to me again!"
Labels: Dear God, drugs, NYC, Razzification
Friday, June 13, 2008
NOT GUILTY, Y'ALL GOTS TO FEEL ME!
So my computer is still not fixed and blogging is a no-no in lab, therefore this will be short and sweet. My phone started blowing up approximately 30 minutes ago with texts from fellow Kellsophiles informing me of the joyous news:
ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY WAS FOUND NOT GUILTY BY A JURY OF HIS NON-PEERS ("non-peers" because, as my friend Morrissey'sHair has pointed out, as "the World's Greatest," Kells is by definition peerless).
This means lots of awesome things are going to ensue: R. Kelly will tour to support his impending TP Fourth Quarter album, I will attend said concert tour, and for years to come I will be following the inimitable RSK like the obsessed stalker that I am. No sex offender tag for Kells! No sit-downs with Chris Hansen! No more defending Kells from all the haters who wonder why I like a pedophile...because he was ACQUITTED! My computer might be fucked, I might be broke as a Thunderbird-swigging homeless guy, and grad school may be hell on earth, but KELLS IS FREE! O joyous day!
Labels: crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Stand by
We are experiencing technical difficulties here at RAZZY.org because my Goddamned piece of shit motherfucking asshole of a MacBook is fucked up again. Last night it went on the fritz and I've spent a good part of the past twelve hours pulling my hair out in frustration and trying to fix it. I have failed in my attempts, so now it's time for my PI--AKA my own personal Apple Genius Bar--to tackle it. I may have to reinstall Leopard YET AGAIN and spend the entire day transferring my backed up files and reinstalling all my critical software pieces, like Office and Photoshop and the like.
So, sorry you guys, I most likely won't be blogging today. You can go ahead and commence the wailing, rending of garments, and gnashing of teeth.
Labels: Apple sucks, computer incompetence, excuses
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Daily Douchebag: nobody
I just got back from vacation, so I'm not hating too much on anything right now, except maybe my vacation being over. I'm sure that's about to change, since I'm on my way to lab. However, I'm going to keep my cheerful spirits about me as long as possible, so you'll have to wait until tomorrow for me hating on anything. Thanks for your patience while I've been away, and I promise to be back to a more normal blogging pace by tomorrow. I'll be back in usual form by Monday at the latest. Holla!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, excuses
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Louisiana
Name: Louisiana
DOB: 1803 (territory acquired), April 30, 1812 (state admitted to Union)
Occupation: weird awesomeness
Hometown: N/A
Current residence: check a map
Anyway, I know all you dedicated Razzyphiles and Haters alike have been without a place to direct your respective adoration or ire, so, as unhappy as I am about my brief vacation being over, I’m pleased to make my glorious return to the internets. And I may as well start by gratuitously telling you about how awesome my trip was!
I already knew that the trip was going to be a serious departure from New York during my flight on Saturday afternoon. Everyone on the plane seemed to know each other judging by their constant chatting with each other. The people behind me were returning from a vacation to New York and were busy telling their seatmate, a stranger who just happened to know about 50 mutual friends, acquaintances, and cousins-by-marriage. They were busy exchanging stories about what they did during their trip, like which restaurants they went to and how many times they visited Ground Zero, which they referred to as “9-1-1” (not “nine-eleven” or “September 11th”, but “nine-one-one”, like the emergency hotline). After two and a half hours of listening to these chatty folks yammering about Tom Colicchio’s sandwich-making prowess and whether or not they liked Wicked or Phantom of the Opera more, I wasn’t entirely out of New York bitch mode and tolerant of the constantly jaw-flapping Southern attitude. I was ready for a damn drink.
I was delighted when LL Cool Jew picked me up and informed me that our first stop (after a quick drive-by of the ruins of the Magnolia Projects where Juvenile came up) was going to be some fancy old hotel bar for mint juleps. We subsequently met up with BigBagel for dinner at Cochon, this upscale place serving expensive versions of old Southern favorites. After a bottle of wine and big plates of pig ears, pork cheeks, salad with fried beef jerky, and frog legs, we went to change in preparation for the requisite tourist visit to the French Quarter. This also seemed like a natural first stop since, like me, this part of town is known for its exposed breasts.
First we had a few drinks and then met up with LL Cool Jew’s former colleague, who I’ll call Lil’ Darlin’, because that’s the name of the strip club she swore was the hip-hop club. After taking our seats and receiving a fistful of dollars each from BigBagel, we were ready to see some girls shaking their jelly to Lil’ Wayne songs. Much to our chagrin, as a new peeler took the stage, we heard the melancholy electronic opening notes to a RADIOHEAD song. “What the fuck?” LL Cool Jew and I both simultaneously said. Who strips to Radiohead? Strippers humping poles are supposed to be fun and sexy, not morose and whiny.
“This place is going downhill since the last time I was here,” said Lil’ Darlin’. “I guess they changed the format.”
“Where are the bitches writhing around to ‘Lollipop’?” demanded LL Cool Jew.
BigBagel was unable to answer because, in spite of the Radiohead or possibly because of it, he was in front of the stage slapping down ones and getting his nipples twisted by the stripper.
We stayed another ten minutes to see a few more bored-looking women shaking their cans to Linkin Park before we decided to venture out in search of hand grenades. Luckily upon getting back outside, some guys were standing on a balcony throwing beads.
“Go get some beads,” LL Cool Jew said.
While this is annoying and touristy, and I actually hate beads because when you’re a packrat with lousy housekeeping skills like myself they do nothing but contribute to clutter, I figured that I could not be on Bourbon Street and not participate in its most famous rite of clichéd debauchery. So I lifted my shirt for the bead-bearers’ benefit and walked away with a Mr. T-sized bundle of gaudy disposable neckwear. Unfortunately for all you guys, we forgot the camera for this part of the trip, but I brought some beads back to New York with me to recreate this scene from the comfort of my own apartment:
I had never eaten crawfish pie before, and in fact did not know what it was. It turns out that it’s like a giant piece of baklava that is made with a shit-ton of etouffee instead of syrup. I think it was probably at least 5000 calories, and I gladly ate my way through three quarters of it before I finally had to surrender. Those Haters who love to tell me how disgustingly fat I am will surely enjoy pointing out that I probably gained at least ten pounds in four days on this trip, and that crawfish pie probably accounted for at least two. Needless to say, it was awesome. I think I could probably write ten pages (one for each pound) alone just rhapsodizing about all the shit I ate while I was there.
After lunch, LL Cool Jew and I had a few hours to kill prior to our swamp tour, so we drove around through the countryside taking in the rural sites. We stopped at a Sonic for limeade and milkshakes just to make sure we really exceeded our lunchtime calorie intake by at least 300% and went for a drive. On our way to some old plantation house we were going to walk the grounds of, we found a completely improbable mural dedicated to the FDNY on a volunteer firehouse in the small town of Parks. LL Cool Jew insisted on taking my picture showing off my Sonic cup and acting the fool in front of it, right in time for a car of old ladies on their way from church drove by with a “Support our Troops” bumper sticker on the back of their giant Cadillac. I don’t think they liked me doing what probably could be construed as mocking the sacrifices of New York’s Bravest on what the people on my plane ride down indicated was locally known as “9-1-1”. They shot us looks of undeniable disapproval and hostility.
"Dude," she said when she snapped the picture and they passed. "Did you see that look those women gave us when they passed by? There's nothing like the icy hate of a Southern lady. It freezes, precious!"
We decided that in spite of my plane ride down leading me to believe that "911" is a perennial favorite place for Louisianans to visit in New York, it's not cool to do tourist activities around their random murals dedicated to New York's Bravest in Louisiana. We also decided that it would be a good idea to do something more officially touristy to ensure that none of the locals get pissed and give us directions to the House of Wax.
Therefore we went to Shadows-on-the-Teche, a plantation house with a big garden on a bayou. We didn't have time to do the whole tour, but we at least got to walk around the grounds and take in the pretty flowers and the oddly juxtaposed pagan-and-Catholic sculpture collection. There were a bunch of obviously half-naked Olympian god-type figures decorating their tits in preparation for a presumptive impending bacchanal…beside some very pious-looking Catholic saints.
“Hey Razzy,” said LL Cool Jew. “Name that saint for me.” She pointed at a particularly stern man with a long beard.
“Pretty sure that’s St. Peter. Simon Peter denied Jesus’s SOG (SOG=son of God) status three times to your messiah-killing, Barabbas-freeing mob of Druish agitators before the cock crowed but still managed to win appointment as the first pope. He’s like the OG Catholic, dude. The rock upon which Josh Christ built his church.”
“How can you tell?” asked LL Cool Jew.
“Well, he looks stern and humorless, and obviously too pious to shave. St. Peter was kind of wild before Jesus tapped him to be the original HBIC of the Cat-lickers, but once Jesus died and rose again he became a joyless old curmudgeon just like Benedixteen. He even insisted on being crucified UPSIDE DOWN once the Romans started getting their persecution on, because he didn’t think anyone should have the luxury of being crucified right-side up like JC. This guy’s demeanor looks and sounds about right.” Then I thought better of it and came clean about my ability to identify Catholic saints based on their unlabeled random statuary. “And the local parish church down the street is called St. Peter’s.”
“Pretty sure that’s St. Peter. Simon Peter denied Jesus’s SOG (SOG=son of God) status three times to your messiah-killing, Barabbas-freeing mob of Druish agitators before the cock crowed but still managed to win appointment as the first pope. He’s like the OG Catholic, dude. The rock upon which Josh Christ built his church.”
“How can you tell?” asked LL Cool Jew.
“Well, he looks stern and humorless, and obviously too pious to shave. St. Peter was kind of wild before Jesus tapped him to be the original HBIC of the Cat-lickers, but once Jesus died and rose again he became a joyless old curmudgeon just like Benedixteen. He even insisted on being crucified UPSIDE DOWN once the Romans started getting their persecution on, because he didn’t think anyone should have the luxury of being crucified right-side up like JC. This guy’s demeanor looks and sounds about right.” Then I thought better of it and came clean about my ability to identify Catholic saints based on their unlabeled random statuary. “And the local parish church down the street is called St. Peter’s.”
We went down to the bayou to see if we could find any nutria, but didn't see any. And speaking of nutria, it was time for our trip to the swamps for a tour. I was sure we would see some.
Our guide was this guy named Walter "Butch" Guchereaux, who not only knew an insane amount about the history, flora, fauna, and current legal status of the swamp he showed us around, he had the world's greatest accent. He was also very sweet and assured me that he would keep us a safe distance from any spiderwebs.
I got right down to business and asked if we could go to wherever the nutria reside.
"Nutria? You're not gonna see any. If you can see da nutrias, da gators can see 'em too." Then he advised me that about ten years ago, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a nutria. However, the nutria population started disappearing coincident with the proliferation of the local alligator population. I can see how that would be, because while we didn't see any nutria, we saw two gigantic fucking alligators.
After about an hour of tooling around checking out birds and reptiles and listening to Butch's corny jokes ("What do you call da most lonedsome bayou? Bayou self") and his stories about how he built a self-sustaining duck blind out of toppled cypress trees ("I got my own ecosystem goin' here"), we headed to Lafayette to the hostel where we were staying. Initially when LL Cool Jew told me she booked us a room at a "hostel" for our night in Cajun country, I was extremely skeptical. "HOSTEL, dude? I don't stay in hostels." I reserve nothing but scorn and disdain for backpacker types, and the idea of sharing a communal shower with them is entirely reprehensible.
"Dude, we have a private room with a private bath. Do you think my JAP-tastic ass would stay in a backpacker-type place?" she said. I had to concede that point. If I'm adamant about my "no backpackers" policy, LL Cool Jew's unwillingness is probably greater by a logarithmic order of magnitude. However, we couldn't check in for another hour, so we went to get a cold beer at the artfaggy joint across the street, a bar appropriately called "Artmosphere."
We were surprised to see such a hipster place in Lafayette, Louisiana (home of the UL Ragin' Cajuns), but we couldn't complain about the $3 beers, even if there were some vintage t-shirt-wearing tools smoking hookahs there.
Then we went to dinner at Prejean's, this Cajun restaurant where we proceeded to consume our weight in fried seafood. LL Cool Jew wasn't kidding when she said their smoked duck and andouille gumbo was one of the most mind-blowing thing she'd ever eaten. We also ordered an oyster bake that was a little disappointing. When our (hot and obviously knowing it) waiter put it in front of us, the whole thing was covered with bechamel sauce and I made a crack about how I like to eat things that are splattered with hot white sauce, he just gave us our plate with a shifty look. LL Cool Jew ate one of the oysters Rockefeller, and I went for the other type of oyster.
"You have a weird look on your face," she observed.
"It's a weird oyster," I said. "The sauce is like...creamy tomato. It's odd."
LL Cool Jew tried one then. "Dude, with the tasso in it, it tastes like...I don't know...some kind of fake-me-out Italian food. It's like a piece of pizza or something."
"Pizza oysters!" I said. "It's like the Prejean's equivalent of a New York slice."
"Dude, pizza oysters made with fucking Prego," observed LL Cool Jew.
Apart from the disappointing pizza oysters, we otherwise gorged ourselves on fried fish and shrimp, and jammed for a while to the weird Zydeco band of old men who took the stage with their accordions and fiddles.
After we were about to burst open from overeating, we decided that instead of dessert we'd opt for some liquid to wash down our dinner. To avoid having to drive, we went back to the Artmosphere.
Within five minutes we met a bunch of dudes who invited us back to the hostel for some--ahem--herbal cigarettes. One of these guys, a good-natured recent traveler to Amsterdam, told a hilarious story about how he was in the Air Force right after the Iraq War started, he met Senator John McCain, who--according to him--wrote on his tent "Give 'em hell! Fuckin' Senator John McCain."
"Dude, did he really write 'Fuckin' Senator John McCain?'" LL Cool Jew demanded. "Because that would be awesome." Unfortunately, the narrator had just added the "fuckin'" for emphasis.
We also met Fuckin' Senator John McCain's friends. First there was Carlos, a "documentary photographer" (translation: unemployed vagabond with a camera who gets laid more when he says he's a documentary photographer), who wouldn't stop marveling that "it's amazing to meet not one, but TWO women who have read a book."
"We've both read more than one, too," I assured him. LL Cool Jew was rolling her eyes. We promised him a ride to New Orleans the next day but bailed two hours early so we didn't have to listen to him raving about what he considered an abnormal amount of female literacy. We did, however, reap the benefits of his photography skills:
Rounding out our group of new friends was Brett, an aw-shucks type of fella who kept trying very, very unsuccessfully to hit on myself and LL Cool Jew by laying on the country bumpkin sweetness thick. He even went so far as to ask if I could take him inside and teach him how to use the internet because he's "not familiar with the technologies" (I declined). He looked like a cross between Tom Selleck and Matthew McConaughey, and it's fitting that he is seen here in front of a "Sugar Cane Loading Zone" sign:
Then we went back to drink more at the Artmosphere, but were quickly lured away again by our new friends to their pal's "convenience store." John Pastore, proprietor of John's Quik Stop, welcomed us through a thick cloud of joint smoke to what is probably the world's most inconvenient convenience store. In addition to this place only being open between 3-7 pm, there appeared to be only one of each item he sold, and most of it was packaged foods and random trinkety crap manufactured by companies we'd never heard of. Check out his toy section:
"I went to the dollar store and bought one of everything!" said John proudly of his inventory.
"Dude, maybe you should go someplace different," said Fuckin' Senator John McCain. "Would you eat this?" He held up a can of "sliced beef, gravy, and rice" that I swear was dog food packaged for human consumption.
"Hell naw!" exclaimed John. "But that don't mean somebody won't!" He was very confident in his business model.
As befits my taste, I immediately went to the most expensive item in the store: the $25 alligator heads. I didn't buy them, but I did try to French them a little bit:
After another drink at the Artmosphere, LL Cool Jew and I passed out. She regaled me with the tale of how she got into it with this random Lebanese guy who joined our group at some point. LL Cool Jew had received a great deal of curious inquiries into her ethnicity from the locals. At one point, Brett asked her "Now what's y'all's extraction?"
"I'm Jewish," LL Cool Jew replied.
"Jewish! Well how about that? I thought y'all was a gypsy!" I'm glad she's not a gypsy, because "LL Cool Gypsy" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
LL Cool Jew had been fielding queries regarding her possible Judeo-Gypsy status all night, so it wasn't a big shock when this Lebanese guy wanted to know. Unfortunately, he reacted a little different than Brett's "I thought y'all was a gypsy" response. He was apparently telling her that halvah could be had at the Cedars Deli nearby.
"It is Jewish-style halvah, though," he said, grimacing. "You aren't Jewish, are you?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," said LL Cool Jew.
He scowled at her and said condescendingly, "My people have been enjoying halvah for two thousand years." LL Cool Jew said that it was apparent he was trying to pull out some "oh, SNAP, Jews!" moves and refused to be baited into saying something that would confirm her status as a Zionist pig to him. I thought she should have been like "Oh yeah? Well, my people have been enjoying halvah for 5,678 years!" or something like that, but she apparently just gave him a withering look and announced she was ready to retire to our quarters.
The next morning we got up, blazed out of the hostel before Carlos could meet us and tag along all day complimenting our intelligence, and got a breakfast at a place that exemplified exactly why there are so many fat people in Louisiana. Check out the guy behind LL Cool Jew:
Then we proceeded to drive around for a bit. We were reminded that, in spite of places like the Artmosphere peddling hookahs and weird artwork, there were still plenty of people more in line with what I would expect...CLASSY:
I totally am getting a sign like that for my dad to put on the back of his "rig," along with a pair of truck balls for his trailer hitch.
Then we got some beef jerky and went to the Tabasco factory on Avery Island. We saw more alligators there, along with more birds, and a shitload of bamboo. It was pretty but uneventful, and we proved two things I already know: that I hate Tabasco (I'm a Tapatio/Marie Sharp's kind of girl) and that LL Cool Jew can still flash a mean lesbian gang sign even though she's gone the breeder route in terms of life partner selection.
Once we got back to New Orleans, it was again eating time. I think I nearly killed myself trying to lay waste to a soft-shelled crab po' boy. Then we went to LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's local pub for trivia night. They do this every Monday, and we were sure that between all of us, we would be able to lay waste to the competition. Unfortunately, that dream was shattered when LL Cool Jew earned the pub dunce cap by identifying the opening line of The Godfather as being from the film Yentl. The look on BigBagel's face in this picture says it all.
We may not have won trivia night, but we did have a really fitting team name. We decided that, in keeping with 50% of the team's Smith College traditions, we'd go with Current Events in Lesbianism as inspiration, and called ourselves "the Lohan-Ronson Invitational Clambake." Even more fitting, I've realized that Lil' Darlin' and I actually look like Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson. It's unfortunate that I have to be the Samantha Ronson of the pair, but you can't win 'em all.
And even more fitting than that is the fact that when we got back to Casa de Cool Jew-Bagel, Lil' Darlin' shared a bed with me and requested that she be permitted to "play with (my) boobs." Of course I gave my consent, and raised her an "as long as you're at it, you want to fuck?" Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend she's actually loyal to, so our imitation of LiLo and SamRo remained superficial. I did get my tits felt up, though, which ruled.
The last day of our trip was one of the most highly anticipated: our journey to Kentwood, Louisiana to see the Britney Jean Spears museum. Actually, the museum was called "The Kentwood Historical and Cultural Museum," but apart from a memorial to Kentwood's brave military people, it was all Britney.
One of the greatest disappointments of my trip was the fact that no photos were allowed. I can't imagine why, because you would think that they could use the publicity. When I signed the guest book, I noted that we were the first visitors in 3 days. Hazel, the ancient woman whose threadbare coat identified her as the "curater" of the museum, didn't slack in attempting to give us a show. She led us into a dark room, then asked if we were "ready," and flipped a switch. There, before us, was a model of the stage from Britney's first tour that some dude in Oregon spent six months making.
"I was thinkin' his wife should get the credit for puttin' up with him fiddlin' with it for six months," said Hazel. LL Cool Jew gave me a look that plainly said, "Sha right, like the gay dude who made this has a wife."
Then we checked out the memorabilia collection. It was really impressive. They had Britney's "Best New Artist" American Music Award, her first MTV video music award (pre-Moonman), her Mickey Mouse Club jacket, and what looked like all of her platinum records. They also had a wall of Britney magazine covers, including a hilariously ironic one that said, "Britney Spears: Why I'm Waiting." Probably the weirdest, most disturbing thing was the hermetically sealed room containing all of Britney's childhood bedroom furniture and Madame Alexander dolls, with a picture in the foreground of Britney from the most Lolita-ed out Rolling Stone photo shoot of all time.
"That's like some gross old pedophile's fantasy jerk closet," LL Cool Jew whispered to me in a tone low enough not to be heard by Hazel as she tottered around.
We consented then to a tour of the military memorial, and listened to Hazel yammer on about how Taylor Horn, another local entertainer who already looks like a total whore at 15, was going to be a big star. It became apparent that the people of Kentwood are trying to divorce themselves from Britney, and even Hazel was probably hoping to replace the BJS section with a Taylor Horn section. We also noted that the "Welcome to Kentwood: Home of Britney Spears" sign that was supposed to greet us had been taken down ("that's cold" observed LL Cool Jew). It's pretty rich that the people of Kentwood think they're too good for even crazy, Frapp-slurping Brit Brit. Kentwood was probably one of the trashiest towns we went through. Half the buildings in town were abandoned and collapsing. The entire place seemed in a state of gradual decay. They didn't even have a Wal-Mart or a Winn-Dixie (although to our delight, they did have a Sonic).
After our tour, in the course of listening to Hazel ramble about Kentwood, its residents, and things we should do during our visit (in which she very amusingly told LL Cool Jew to "take your Yankee to Nyla's Burger Basket for some fried catfish"), we managed to get directions to Serenity, the Spears family "estate." LL Cool Jew and I immediately went there, and drove by several times trying to discreetly take a picture and hopefully see Jamie-Lynn's pregnant ass waddling around.
Sadly, there were no Jamie-Lynn sightings, so we just grabbed more drinks from Sonic and headed back to New Orleans to watch some Lord of the Rings for old time's sake. LL Cool Jew and I watch LOTR movies when we have nothing better to do. It was a great way to end a vacation that was entirely too short.
I have to go back as soon as possible, because I didn't do nearly as many things as I wanted to do. Specifically, I didn't eat any nutria! I didn't even SEE any nutria. Every time we passed any type of swampy body of water, I was scanning eagerly for those little guys swimming around, but it turns out that they are pretty elusive for an invasive species. Obviously, I MUST at least see nutria at some point even if I can't eat them, so I'll have to go back.
"Nutria? You're not gonna see any. If you can see da nutrias, da gators can see 'em too." Then he advised me that about ten years ago, you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a nutria. However, the nutria population started disappearing coincident with the proliferation of the local alligator population. I can see how that would be, because while we didn't see any nutria, we saw two gigantic fucking alligators.
After about an hour of tooling around checking out birds and reptiles and listening to Butch's corny jokes ("What do you call da most lonedsome bayou? Bayou self") and his stories about how he built a self-sustaining duck blind out of toppled cypress trees ("I got my own ecosystem goin' here"), we headed to Lafayette to the hostel where we were staying. Initially when LL Cool Jew told me she booked us a room at a "hostel" for our night in Cajun country, I was extremely skeptical. "HOSTEL, dude? I don't stay in hostels." I reserve nothing but scorn and disdain for backpacker types, and the idea of sharing a communal shower with them is entirely reprehensible.
"Dude, we have a private room with a private bath. Do you think my JAP-tastic ass would stay in a backpacker-type place?" she said. I had to concede that point. If I'm adamant about my "no backpackers" policy, LL Cool Jew's unwillingness is probably greater by a logarithmic order of magnitude. However, we couldn't check in for another hour, so we went to get a cold beer at the artfaggy joint across the street, a bar appropriately called "Artmosphere."
"You have a weird look on your face," she observed.
"It's a weird oyster," I said. "The sauce is like...creamy tomato. It's odd."
LL Cool Jew tried one then. "Dude, with the tasso in it, it tastes like...I don't know...some kind of fake-me-out Italian food. It's like a piece of pizza or something."
"Pizza oysters!" I said. "It's like the Prejean's equivalent of a New York slice."
"Dude, pizza oysters made with fucking Prego," observed LL Cool Jew.
Apart from the disappointing pizza oysters, we otherwise gorged ourselves on fried fish and shrimp, and jammed for a while to the weird Zydeco band of old men who took the stage with their accordions and fiddles.
Within five minutes we met a bunch of dudes who invited us back to the hostel for some--ahem--herbal cigarettes. One of these guys, a good-natured recent traveler to Amsterdam, told a hilarious story about how he was in the Air Force right after the Iraq War started, he met Senator John McCain, who--according to him--wrote on his tent "Give 'em hell! Fuckin' Senator John McCain."
We also met Fuckin' Senator John McCain's friends. First there was Carlos, a "documentary photographer" (translation: unemployed vagabond with a camera who gets laid more when he says he's a documentary photographer), who wouldn't stop marveling that "it's amazing to meet not one, but TWO women who have read a book."
"Dude, maybe you should go someplace different," said Fuckin' Senator John McCain. "Would you eat this?" He held up a can of "sliced beef, gravy, and rice" that I swear was dog food packaged for human consumption.
"Hell naw!" exclaimed John. "But that don't mean somebody won't!" He was very confident in his business model.
As befits my taste, I immediately went to the most expensive item in the store: the $25 alligator heads. I didn't buy them, but I did try to French them a little bit:
After another drink at the Artmosphere, LL Cool Jew and I passed out. She regaled me with the tale of how she got into it with this random Lebanese guy who joined our group at some point. LL Cool Jew had received a great deal of curious inquiries into her ethnicity from the locals. At one point, Brett asked her "Now what's y'all's extraction?"
"I'm Jewish," LL Cool Jew replied.
"Jewish! Well how about that? I thought y'all was a gypsy!" I'm glad she's not a gypsy, because "LL Cool Gypsy" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
LL Cool Jew had been fielding queries regarding her possible Judeo-Gypsy status all night, so it wasn't a big shock when this Lebanese guy wanted to know. Unfortunately, he reacted a little different than Brett's "I thought y'all was a gypsy" response. He was apparently telling her that halvah could be had at the Cedars Deli nearby.
"It is Jewish-style halvah, though," he said, grimacing. "You aren't Jewish, are you?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," said LL Cool Jew.
He scowled at her and said condescendingly, "My people have been enjoying halvah for two thousand years." LL Cool Jew said that it was apparent he was trying to pull out some "oh, SNAP, Jews!" moves and refused to be baited into saying something that would confirm her status as a Zionist pig to him. I thought she should have been like "Oh yeah? Well, my people have been enjoying halvah for 5,678 years!" or something like that, but she apparently just gave him a withering look and announced she was ready to retire to our quarters.
The next morning we got up, blazed out of the hostel before Carlos could meet us and tag along all day complimenting our intelligence, and got a breakfast at a place that exemplified exactly why there are so many fat people in Louisiana. Check out the guy behind LL Cool Jew:
Then we got some beef jerky and went to the Tabasco factory on Avery Island. We saw more alligators there, along with more birds, and a shitload of bamboo. It was pretty but uneventful, and we proved two things I already know: that I hate Tabasco (I'm a Tapatio/Marie Sharp's kind of girl) and that LL Cool Jew can still flash a mean lesbian gang sign even though she's gone the breeder route in terms of life partner selection.
Once we got back to New Orleans, it was again eating time. I think I nearly killed myself trying to lay waste to a soft-shelled crab po' boy. Then we went to LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's local pub for trivia night. They do this every Monday, and we were sure that between all of us, we would be able to lay waste to the competition. Unfortunately, that dream was shattered when LL Cool Jew earned the pub dunce cap by identifying the opening line of The Godfather as being from the film Yentl. The look on BigBagel's face in this picture says it all.
The last day of our trip was one of the most highly anticipated: our journey to Kentwood, Louisiana to see the Britney Jean Spears museum. Actually, the museum was called "The Kentwood Historical and Cultural Museum," but apart from a memorial to Kentwood's brave military people, it was all Britney.
"I was thinkin' his wife should get the credit for puttin' up with him fiddlin' with it for six months," said Hazel. LL Cool Jew gave me a look that plainly said, "Sha right, like the gay dude who made this has a wife."
Then we checked out the memorabilia collection. It was really impressive. They had Britney's "Best New Artist" American Music Award, her first MTV video music award (pre-Moonman), her Mickey Mouse Club jacket, and what looked like all of her platinum records. They also had a wall of Britney magazine covers, including a hilariously ironic one that said, "Britney Spears: Why I'm Waiting." Probably the weirdest, most disturbing thing was the hermetically sealed room containing all of Britney's childhood bedroom furniture and Madame Alexander dolls, with a picture in the foreground of Britney from the most Lolita-ed out Rolling Stone photo shoot of all time.
"That's like some gross old pedophile's fantasy jerk closet," LL Cool Jew whispered to me in a tone low enough not to be heard by Hazel as she tottered around.
We consented then to a tour of the military memorial, and listened to Hazel yammer on about how Taylor Horn, another local entertainer who already looks like a total whore at 15, was going to be a big star. It became apparent that the people of Kentwood are trying to divorce themselves from Britney, and even Hazel was probably hoping to replace the BJS section with a Taylor Horn section. We also noted that the "Welcome to Kentwood: Home of Britney Spears" sign that was supposed to greet us had been taken down ("that's cold" observed LL Cool Jew). It's pretty rich that the people of Kentwood think they're too good for even crazy, Frapp-slurping Brit Brit. Kentwood was probably one of the trashiest towns we went through. Half the buildings in town were abandoned and collapsing. The entire place seemed in a state of gradual decay. They didn't even have a Wal-Mart or a Winn-Dixie (although to our delight, they did have a Sonic).
After our tour, in the course of listening to Hazel ramble about Kentwood, its residents, and things we should do during our visit (in which she very amusingly told LL Cool Jew to "take your Yankee to Nyla's Burger Basket for some fried catfish"), we managed to get directions to Serenity, the Spears family "estate." LL Cool Jew and I immediately went there, and drove by several times trying to discreetly take a picture and hopefully see Jamie-Lynn's pregnant ass waddling around.
I have to go back as soon as possible, because I didn't do nearly as many things as I wanted to do. Specifically, I didn't eat any nutria! I didn't even SEE any nutria. Every time we passed any type of swampy body of water, I was scanning eagerly for those little guys swimming around, but it turns out that they are pretty elusive for an invasive species. Obviously, I MUST at least see nutria at some point even if I can't eat them, so I'll have to go back.
Oh, and PS...LL Cool Jew thanks all the readers requesting pictures of her tits, but her reply to your request is "NO WAY IN FUCKING HELL."
Labels: BigBagel, Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, gluttony, LL Cool Jew
Saturday, June 07, 2008
All quiet on the Razzy front
Just a quick mention that I'm flying off to New Orleans today for a few days of gluttony, nerdiness, and boozing with my BFF LL Cool Jew, so please forgive what will probably be a little less blogging than usual. I'm bringing my computer and plan to try to stay on my game, but LL Cool Jew has an itinerary of museum-visiting and swamp touring and nutria hunting and Britney Spears stalking planned, with lots of turtle soup and crawfish consumption in between. Therefore, don't be surprised if I'm not Douchebagging people with my usual daily regularity. If you're pissed about this, know that I'll make it up to you with lots and lots of titty pictures. LL Cool Jew tells me that breast-baring is acceptable year round in the French Quarter, and not just during Mardi Gras. Thus, I am confident I'll produce plenty of vacation photos that all you dear little pervs can beat it to.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: excuses, LL Cool Jew, Razzification
Friday, June 06, 2008
Columbia University Medical Center: where we put the "class" in grad school
Today one of my esteemed colleagues went to use the bathroom in the building where I work, and found this:
It seems that either one of the burgeoning yeast geneticists on her floor has picked up some of Dylan McKay's bad habits (and sheesh, you guys, I know grad school sucks but heroin is not the answer...booze is), or after hours our building full of science nerds is a haven for junkies. Considering that campus safety around here sucks so bad that my labmate SisterChristian once caught a Columbia rent-a-cop stealing from the kitchen on our floor, I wouldn't be surprised if the unsavory sorts that hang around the Columbia-Presbyterian hospital ER were allowed to come shoot up in the Hammer building ninth floor ladies room. But sheesh, the least they can do is chuck their dirty paraphernalia in one of the sharps containers that are ubiquitous in a building full of biomedical research labs.
What I am most curious about is what the dropper was for. I mean, okay, the syringe is clearly forinjecting drugs (or I guess it could possibly be for insulin, too). What the hell purpose does the dropper serve, though? The only thing I can think of is dripping water into your spoon to cook up your drugs with (that's how drugs are cooked up, right? I think I've seen people do that on episodes of "Intervention"). The only other illicit use I can think of is dripping laudanum tincture into a glass of water like that rich widow on "Deadwood," but since I haven't heard of anyone being addicted to laudanum anytime this century, somehow I doubt that was what it was used for.
As always, Columbia is everything one would expect a fine, fancy, Ivy League institution to be. We not only get paid the shittiest stipend of all the reputable New York City grad schools, have the worst housing, and boast the lowest morale among grad students in the biomedical sciences, we can at least brag that our research building bathrooms are cozy places for local indigent junkies to inject their probably HIV- and hepC-positive asses with illegal opiates. I hope I never graduate, because I just love the elegant, sophisticated, incredibly respectable atmosphere here at Columbia so fucking much. I never want to leave.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, fuck Columbia, grad school bullshit
A good omen on the nutria tip
I've refused to mitigate my determination to taste nutria, the semi-acquatic swamp rat that has invaded the bayous, on my trip to visit LL Cool Jew in New Orleans this weekend. I've even contemplated tracking down the elderly Cajun trapper shown bludgeoning a nutria (nutrium?) to death with a stick prior to stewing it for Andrew Zimmern on "Bizarre Foods" in order to slake my nutria lust. I even corresponded with Razzyphile who is a current Smith bitch and Jordan House resident about stalking the nutria in her Lafayette, Louisiana city park with a club and a stew pot. Yesterday LL Cool Jew and I had a strategery session about how, short of actually going on a nutria hunt, we might get some through sheer guile.
LL Cool Jew: dude i don't think we will be able to eat any nutria
LL Cool Jew: i wonder if we'll even be able to see any?
LL Cool Jew:what we can try is this, even though it makes me somewhat embarrassed
LL Cool Jew: ask at the best stop near lafayette when we swing by for rgular jerky
Razzy: YES
Razzy: let's ask around
Razzy: we won't be offensive!
LL Cool Jew: we're going to have to work on our spiel
LL Cool Jew: maybe do some role playing on the drive over
Razzy: i'll say that i saw it on tv and it looked good
Razzy: nothing patronizing about that
LL Cool Jew: true
Razzy: i won't say i saw it on "bizarre foods"
LL Cool Jew: andrew zimmern can make lots of things look good
Razzy:: i'll just say it was "a food show"
LL Cool Jew: they will probably know which one
LL Cool Jew: it's OK, the show celebrates the foods
Razzy: well true
Razzy: i won't make it seem like i'm some city bitch looking to patronize the country folks
Razzy: by eating their swamp rats
LL Cool Jew: yes.
LL Cool Jew: we have to be shy and self-deprecating when we ask
LL Cool Jew: and precede it with a lot of hemming and hawing about "i know this is a strange question..."
LL Cool Jew: "i'm not sure whether you might be able to help me but..."
LL Cool Jew: don't want ppl to be like - "do i LOOK like someone who eats R.O.U.S.s?"
Well, it turns out we may not even have to go to the country for our Dorito-toothed rodent fix. LL Cool Jew e-mailed me an article from today's Times-Picayune detailing a nutria problem severe enough to warrant a SWAT team that has exploded in the suburbs of New Orleans.
Nutria under the gun on the 17th Street CanalI think this bodes well for our nutria-acquiring mission. If there's an excess of freshly shot nutria laying around New Orleans, there's a chance that the fancy "country chic" restaurant LL Cool Jew is taking me to tomorrow night might have a nutria special on the menu! As early as tomorrow we might be dining on nutria etouffee. Score!
Posted by Andrew Vanacore June 05, 2008 11:02PM
A Jefferson Parish SWAT team has been called in to defend the 17th Street Canal.
The threat? Nutria, the orange-toothed rodents that eat through marshlands and levees, among other offenses. Officials say their numbers around the canal have jumped in the last year and a half, damaging levees."They've not only damaged the intake pipes but burrowed into holes along the canal," said Chief Bob Garner of the East Jefferson Levee District Police.
Inspections around the 17th Street Canal began turning up signs of nutria about a year and a half ago, said Danny Abadie, superintendent of operations for the East Jefferson Levee District Maintenance Department.
"We've seen a bunch of these critters out there," Abadie said. "They're eating at the base of the grasses," which can lead to soil erosion.
Over time, that erosion can add up. When Jefferson Parish officials first recognized the nutria epidemic in 1994, they estimated it had already caused $6 million to $8 million in damage.
Jefferson Parish SWAT teams have targeted the rodents along drainage canals for more than a decade.
Their ever-burgeoning numbers and destructive eating habits have left the nutria with few friends - even among animal rights groups.
Garner said he asked the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Office to deploy the SWAT team as a favor.
SWAT members will stalk the rats with rifles in the wee hours, They plan to start as early as today. Garner said the operation could last weeks.
Still an open question is whether SWAT members will have jurisdiction to go after nutria on the Orleans Parish side of the canal.
Garner said East Jefferson officials have focused on the Jefferson side. But he couldn't say whether sharpshooters would hold their fire if they spot pests across the water.
"For the time being, we're only concerned with those that are on our side," Garner said. "If that problem arises, we'll deal with it."
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, gluttony, LL Cool Jew, sexy delicious animals
Forecast for Seattle: the sucking balls continues
In addition to enforcing bullshit policies against watching two hot ladies play tonsil hockey at Mariners games, Seattle continues its tradition of attempted (and failed) politically correct lameness. According to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, the city is contemplating banning beach bonfires because they contribute to global warming.
Good idea, Seattle. Let everyone know that when it comes to the environment, you are not only the most annoyingly self-righteous city in America, you are also the dumbest. Because while surely the bonfires at Alki Beach do emit some evil ozone-destroying, planet-warming carbon, so do the trillions of fucking SUVs that clog every single one of your freeways, except exponentially more. "But the people of Seattle are so fucking green, Razzy!" you might say. "I've read about how they all love to throw on their REI fleeces and hit the many beautiful hiking spots in the P-N-Dub! I've watched 'Gray's Anatomy'! I like Death Cab for Cutie! The people of Seattle are obnoxious, smug pseudo-intellectual liberals who love the outdoors and sit around at coffeeshops worshiping Al Gore! Seattle loves the environment! How could it be that they are among the most gaz-guzzling car addicts on the West Coast?"
I'll tell you how that can be: public transportation in Seattle sucks, as it indicates the engineering skills you would expect from the great minds who unwittingly named their trolley "the SLUT." When I lived in Tacoma, I worked in Seattle and drove the 35 miles each way up I-5 every day. I would have loved to take the Sounder, the light rail commuter train that the region unleashed with great fanfare. However, the Sounder was more expensive than driving (although that may not be true now that gas prices are about twice what they were in 2000-2003), ran only 3 times in the morning and 3 times at night, and ended up in a spot in Seattle where I'd either have to walk over a mile up a very, VERY steep hill to work or take two notoriously inefficient buses. Even worse, if I had to work late and miss the last Sounder back to Tacoma, I would have to take the bus, which is not only infuriatingly slow (even the express bus), but would drop me off at a different location in Tacoma over a mile away from the Sounder Park and Ride in one of the worst parts of town. The only thing I can say to the prospect of me walking past all the hookers and crackheads on Puyallup Avenue in my business slutty work clothes after dark is a vehement SHA RIGHT. It was cheaper and easier to cope with the traffic by rolling solo in my Honda Civic. Most everyone else living outside Seattle, whether down south like me, on the east side in Bellevue, or north in Everett, thought so too. Hence there were so many single person occupancy vehicles on the road that it would sometimes take me almost two hours to make the trip between Seattle and Tacoma.
There are many things I love about the P-N-Dub. And as much as its residents and social scene annoys me, Seattle is a beautiful city with amazing seafood and a hot fucking NFL team. However, the outrageous stupidity of the ecologically-minded powers that be continues to amaze me. Rather than devise effective, meaningful new mass transit solutions or create incentives for people to car pool or drive hybrid vehicles or do SOMETHING that would fix the appallingly bad traffic problems, Seattle thinks that it should ban beach fires. Congratulations, Seattle, on letting the world know that your city leaders are not only dumb as a box of fucking rocks and completely ineffective at realizing its do-gooder goals for the planet, but no fun whatsoever. At this point there's a 90% likelihood that I'll be coming out to the P-N-Dub this August to squire my pal JerseyGirl around and show her the sights, and we'll make sure to build a beach fire to rival the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory just to be assholes. Fuck your beach burn ban, Seattle.
Labels: fuck the planet, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, tyrannical rulers
Daily Douchebag: Safeco Field staff
DOB: July 15, 1999
Occupation: homophobic, civil rights-infringing assholes
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, CorporateCard shot me an e-mail with a link to this news story about a couple of hot lezzies who got busted by ushers at Safeco Field for making out during a Mariners game. Apparently, people seated nearby didn't like them smooching over Safeco's famous (and fucking delicious) garlic fries, and didn't want to have to explain to their children why two women were kissing (my explanation would be "because they're awesome"), so the ushers told them that they'd have to leave if they didn't keep it platonic. Apart from the squashing of hot girl-on-girl being further evidence supporting my theory that children totally suck, this is bullshit, but it's par for the course when it comes to Safeco Field.
As a native of the glorious P-N-Dub, I have watched the Mariners lose at Safeco many, many, many times. Safeco is a beautiful ballpark, and catching a game there is one of the best things about being in Seattle during the few months that the skies aren't consistently overcast. As I mentioned before, the garlic fries are awesome, as is the icy cold Rainier Beer (AKA "Vitamin R") on tap, as is the view of downtown Seattle, the Olympic Mountains, and the Puget Sound. However, the ushers at Safeco have perennially been famous for their prudish fascism since the Safe opened its doors. I remember in the first couple years after Safeco's opening, some genius Mariners fans decided to start wearing shirts that said "YANKEES SUCK" on them. I think almost everyone in the world who isn't among the hateful legions of Satan worshipers AKA Yankees fans) not only appreciates this sentiment, but agrees with it wholeheartedly. However, Safeco's lame usher staff spotted these shirts, claimed they were "offensive," and made everyone wearing one either take it off, turn it inside out, or get the fuck out of the stadium. At the time of the "Yankees Suck" controversy, I remember being disgusted with what I marked as typical Seattle bullshit. Only in politically-correct Seattle is "suck" considered a vulgarity (and again, when "suck" is paired with the word "Yankees," I consider that phrase a sacred utterance), and only in Seattle is wearing a shirt that's considered not nice by some an ejectable offense. Trust that you could probably walk into Yankee Stadium wearing a hat with a flashing neon sign that says "FUCK THOSE ASSHOLE (insert name of team playing Yankees here)!" and get a damn seating upgrade. I mean, Alex Rodriguez's wife wore a wife beater that said "FUCK YOU" on the back to Yankee Stadium, for God's sake! In Seattle, you'd probably be jailed for those kind of foul-mouthed shenanigans.
After a massive public outcry, Safeco Field officials finally conceded that "Yankees Suck" shirts weren't the end of the world, and without much fanfare stopped their dedicated campaign to stifle anti-(sonofabitchbastard) Yankees sentiment among Mariner fans. However, the ushers at Safeco continue to be totally lame. One time I went to a Mariners game with a bunch of my colleagues at the company I used to work at in Seattle. Being a group of highly professional, unbelievably classy science nerds, we smuggled in a flask of booze to augment our overpriced Vitamin Rs. At some point around the 6th inning, an usher caught us passing it around and confiscated it.
"You can't take our private property!" I hissed at the usher, who was approximately 97 years old. "What the fuck are you going to do if we don't hand it over?"
"Call the police," he replied. We handed it over.
"That's a treasured possession!" protested the flask's owner. "I insist that I get it back after the game! You aren't entitled to keep it!"
"Inquire at the security office after the game," said the usher.
The flask's owner and I drunkenly marched to the security office after the game and demanded the flask back. The security guy was a total dick, and he got out the flask. "Oh, you mean this flask?" he asked.
"Yes," we said. "Return it immediately."
"Well, sorry, I can't," he said, taunting us with it. "You see, it has alcohol in it, and we are obligated not to release any alcoholic substances."
In a move of drunken ballsiness that I probably would never in a million years contemplate doing sober, I snatched it from him and poured out the remaining three swigs of booze in it on the security office floor. I handed it back to him.
"Problem solved," I said. "Now give it back to us. It has sentimental value, and you have no right to confiscate it permanently."
The security guy made some threats about how we had better behave properly at future Mariners games, but gave us the flask. We went to a bar to drink more with our other colleagues/drunks to celebrate our victory over the nefarious Safeco Field gestapo.
Hearing now that Safeco Field's staff is cracking down on hot chicks kissing is hardly surprising. It merely continues the tradition of intolerant lameness that has become the standard. Compounding the ass-suckery that is par for the course at Safeco, management is defending their decision to hate on horny dykes as a response to their behavior, not their sexual orientation. Supposedly, they were kissing, groping, and fondling, which is as gross a violation of Safeco's "family friendly" policy as a "Yankees Suck" t-shirt. I would argue that since the complaining lesbian was a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," kissing, groping, and fondling come to her as naturally as breathing. These are civil rights which Safeco Field has no right to cruelly infringe upon. Besides, the Mariners are as usual underperforming enough to be sitting squarely in last place in the AL West, so it would be nice to be distracted from Felix Hernandez giving up 4 runs to the Red Sox and blowing the game in the 8th inning by some girls getting sexy. Let the lesbians get it on at Mariners games without worrying about whether or not it will confuse idiot children, you homophobic, hating bastards at Safeco Field!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, fuck the Yankees, hot chicks, lezbollah, Mariners, P-N-Dub, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Laurie Dhue
Name: Laurie Walker Dhue
DOB: February 10, 1969
Occupation: cable news anchor and correspondent
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Back when she was working at America's most freedom-loving news network, some of my pals on the production staff there had the opportunity to work with the legendary Laurie Dhue. I already knew that Laurie was one of the most lusted-after cable news anchors thanks to her mile-long legs, her fondness for short skirts and high boots, and her heavily shellacked TV news face. What I did not know is that Laurie is a force to be reckoned with. Twathopper told me that the first time she met her, Laurie grabbed her hand with a bone-crushing grip and said in a surprisingly mannish voice, "LAURIE DHUE, nice to meetcha." Twathopper feebly managed back, "Uh...Twat. Hopper? Nice to meet you too."
I heard an even more entertaining story on New Year's Eve from some guy who was an acquaintance of my news producer friends. Apparently, Laurie Dhue took a shine to him. Why, I can't imagine, because although this dude thought he was hot shit, he was NOT attractive. In fact, he was a short hobbit of a man with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard and unkempt eyebrows who wouldn't shut up about the lame-ass band he was in. One of my friends even suggested that maybe I would like this guy before he showed up at our party, and when he did I castigated her for thinking I had such poor taste. I mean, he not only has a goatee, but a LONG goatee. I have better things to do than try to bang some diminutive cable news lackey in his mid-30s with facial hair reminiscent of the Billy Goats Gruff who thinks he's hot shit because he's in some shitty band trying to recapitulate the magic of Hoobastank. However, Laurie Dhue seemingly did not experience the same repulsion and, despite towering over him at 6'3", aggressively pursued him.
Apparently, they met at a work happy hour, and she inquired whether or not he wanted to grab some dinner after drinks. "I'm not really hungry," he said.
"WRONG ANSWER!" bellowed Laurie Dhue.
Terrified of the blonde giantess demanding his supper company, this guy immediately complied. So he went to dinner with Laurie Dhue, and when she demanded he take her home afterward, he complied and fucked her. Apparently they hit it a few times after that. According to this guy, he said he had to cut her loose, but given Laurie's formidable presence, I bet she just got tired and kicked his fug bass-playing ass to the curb.
While I may not share Laurie Dhue's taste in men, I certainly applaud her tactics. I am pretty forward and aggressive when it comes to closing the deal with my prospective sex partners, but I don't recall any time I've ever asked a guy out and when he declined, forcefully declared that a "WRONG ANSWER!" to a room full of people. That takes balls down to the floor and a bossy sense of entitlement that only the hottest slag at FOX News can boast. I am sad that Laurie was unable to come to terms while renegotiating her contract and left FOX in March, because I enjoyed thinking "WRONG ANSWER!" and "LAURIE DHUE, nice to meetcha" every time I flipped on FOX News and saw her hot ass breaking down the news or bantering with O'Reilly or Geraldo on their shows.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, sluts, TV
Dream OFF
You may recall an uncharacteristically girlish post I wrote a while back about a boy I liked, in which many Razzyphiles kindly provided lots of sound advice on how to deal with this situation. Of course, I didn't take any of that advice, and chose to just ignore the guy and hope that this brief bout of feelings would pass like a head cold. Frankly, I can't take a lot of that advice. Many people suggested I invite him somewhere for a date, which I just can't bear to do. Also, I was told to pretend I'm virtuous and not skanky, and not to sleep with him under any circumstances. Well, that's impossible since he already knows I'm skanky because I slept with him once a long time ago and our friendship developed after. Therefore, I just decided to get over it, because either he doesn't know how I feel or doesn't feel the same way, and I don't want to put myself out there in a most un-Razzified way, get shot down, feel like an idiot, and foment a permanent awkwardness between us. I'm not going to wait around for him to make a move, and I'm not going to make one myself, so it's better that I occupy my time with more productive pursuits. Besides, Morrissey'sHair gave me a stern Gchattig-to the other day, and it confirmed what I already knew: that this kind of bullshit is a waste of my time.
Razzy: i totally like this one guy
Razzy: but i'm so fucking idiotic about how to handle it
Razzy: i'm just pretending that he doesn't exist any more
Razzy: i suck at being coy and whatever the fuck girls are supposed to do to get a man
Razzy: for more than 1 night
Morrissey'sHair: you shouldn't be getting hung up on these dudes, Raz. They're not worth it
Razzy: i know
Razzy: i hardly ever do
Razzy: i just always pick the wrong guys
Morrissey'sHair: You, of all people, don' t need to date for the sake of dating
Razzy: well, i'm not dating for the sake of dating
Razzy: i really like this guy
Morrissey'sHair: being single is not the end of the world
Razzy: no, of course not
Razzy: duh
Morrissey'sHair: But I know that it feels lonely at times
Razzy: it does
Razzy: we have this incredibly ambiguous "friendship"
Razzy: (details omitted because they are too identifying and I would be mortified if this guy found out I was talking about him like this on my blog)
Morrissey'sHair: you don't need friends like that
Razzy: ugh i know
Razzy: he's SUCH a nerd too
Razzy: (more identifying details I'm omitting...I left the above nerd comment above there because it's an established fact that I have a big nerd fetish and I know many of them, so no big reveal there)
Morrissey'sHair: WTF? Kick this guy to the curb!
Morrissey'sHair: Who the fuck does he think he is?
Morrissey'sHair: You DO NOT need that in your life, Raz.
Anyway, in spite of LL Cool Jew saying that I shouldn't give up because this guy and I are perfect for each other, I'm more inclined to follow Morrissey'sHair's line of thinking. However compatible this guy and I may be in theory, it's not happening in reality and until it does, I don't need this bullshit in my life on top of everything else causing unnecessary stress about decidedly lame junior high issues like whether or not somebody "likes" me.
Too bad just when I was getting the hang of not "liking" this dumb guy, I went and had an incredibly vivid sex dream about him. In the dream we were swimming around at some beach resort-type place. Yes, I know that dream swimming means something sexual, and even if I didn't, I would have been clued into the significance of water when we wound up having way, WAY hotter dream sex in the dream-beach crashing surf than any we've had in real life. I won't go into the details, but it was one of those dreams where you wake up and actually expect to see the dream partner laying next to you naked and ready to go. I don't know if I had this dream because a totally platonic instant message conversation I had with the subject yesterday reminded my subconscious that I was trying to forget about the fact that I am attracted to him against all my better judgment and I just wasn't tormented and confused ENOUGH by this situation.
Apparently, making the rational decision not to be a dumb girl hung up on who I like is not enough to actually accomplish that, since my subconscious betrays me in dreams. I wish there was an "off" switch for this kind of thing so I can get back to focusing on how I'm going to score a player from the 'Nolia this weekend in New Orleans, and show my breasts to every tourist in the French Quarter, and eat my weight in crawfish, shrimp, andouille, turtles, and giant swamp rats, and generally be a Razzified force to be reckoned with. At least if I can't turn it off, I can get so rip-roaring drunk that I don't dream at all, and have so many adventures that I forget all about this bullshit by the time I get back to New York. Yeah...that's it. Alcohol and educational tourist activities. Lots and lots of alcohol and educational tourist activities.
Labels: LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, oh the horror, overcompensation, Razzification, sex
Daily Douchebag: Brad Pitt
Name: William Bradley Pitt
DOB: December 18, 1963
Occupation: hypocrite; lover of ugly modern art
Hometown: Springfield, Missouri
Current residence: last I heard it was some ridiculous 23-bedroom mansion in France
Douchebaggery: I get really, really sick of listening to Brad Pitt lecturing everyone sanctimoniously about poverty and AIDS and whatever else. Just because he's fucking Angelina Jolie doesn't mean he had to go and pick up her bad habits of being an insufferable twat about social issues and a baby junkie, but seemingly he did anyway. Now I see him all the time running around with fellow patronizing do-gooder Bono excoriating everybody for being greedy fucks who don't take time out of their busy schedules making shitty movies and shitty albums to pose for photo shoots with a village full of starving refugees and AIDS orphans. There's nothing I hate more than seeing some self-righteous piece of shit stepping off a private jet in clothes that probably cost more than my monthly salary to hassle me about my supposedly gluttonous lifestyle. Fuck you, asshole! I'm poor! I eat nothing but grilled cheese sandwiches and I can barely afford the Pantene I wash my hair with.
When Brad Pitt isn't busy being an obnoxious charity media whore, he apparently is a big fan of modern art. Despite the fact that Angelina's about to produce two more revered spawn (who in fifteen years will probably make Paris Hilton look like a saint in comparison to their spoiled, bratty antics), Brad took time out from settling into their new mansion in the French countryside to visit some art expo in Basel, Switzerland. While there, he decided to pick up a few things to decorate the new digs. Specifically, he picked up a bunch of hideous shit worth half a million dollars:
See that white table? It cost $293,000. And that chair? He got two of those at $25,000 each. He also purchased that ugly lamp and an aluminum rug at $175 a square foot, and is reportedly considering shelling out $300,000 for a gold-lacquered fiberglass sofa.
I'm sure these were totally practical purchases that Brad Pitt bought out of absolute necessity, because surely nobody as concerned with how all our self-indulgent society is doing insufficient work on behalf of the poor malaria-stricken AIDS orphans would buy totally unnecessary overpriced pieces of crap just because they can afford to. I'm sure that Brad Pitt's fancy modern art furniture is needed to accommodate his ever-expanding brood, and nothing is more pleasing for a newborn baby to crawl around on than an aluminum rug. I know my childhood was totally deprived because my parents hadn't ensured that I could read my Chronicles of Narnia books while sitting on an undoubtedly comfortable $25,000 bronze chair, putting my feet on an ugly coffee table hewn from a solid block of Italian marble, and illuminated the room with a busted overpriced lamp. So Brad Pitt's global progeny are lucky to have such essentials decking out their nursery. However, I still wonder how this fits into Brad Pitt's calling out everyone in America to do their duty and join the fight against overconsumption and promote sustainable solutions to hunger and poverty in the developing world.
If I ever run into Brad Pitt and his equally smug, hypocritical baby mama, I'm going to be sure to inquire how exactly that gold-plated couch fits into his commitment to eradicating the world's problems other than by proving that he's rich enough to drown his hypocrisy in a big consumerism binge. I'm sure he'll be able to explain it away, and by "explain it away" I mean he'll just remind me that he's Brad Pitt, the sexiest man alive or something, he's friends with George Clooney, and he's sticking his dick into Angelina Jolie and boy, she's an even bigger humanitarian photo op slut than he is! Good show, Brad Pitt. The impoverished of the world are in your debt.
Labels: artfaggotry, assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, gluttony, media whores, sluts
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Daily Douchebag: John McCain's teleprompter
DOB: sometime in the last year or two
Occupation: fucking up straight talk
Hometown: probably China
Current residence: Kenner, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: So if you don't live under a rock or on The Island from "Lost," you know that last night, Barack Obama secured all the delegates needed for the Democratic nomination. I got home right in time to see him give yet another hope-change-blah blah blah speech to an arena full of Obamaniacs going crazy in Minnesota. He specifically did this in Minnesota, rather than in Montana where he won his final primary, because that's where the Republican convention is going to be and he wanted to stick it to McCain. That became apparent when his rousing oratory included a bunch of backhanded compliments dissing my man McCain, such as "I respect all of Senator McCain's accomplishments, even if he chooses to deny mine."
I expected McCain to return the favor and start talking trash about Obama. At first I thought this was going well, because I saw an excerpt of his speech in which he stressed his history of bipartisanship and his decades of tireless service to America. He seemed humble. I was like, "Any minute now, he's going to say something awesome about how he's going to own Obama come November." LL Cool Jew then texted me, "I'm sorry, mccains speech was pathetic." Uh oh, I thought.
So I watched more of the speech and realized that it certainly wasn't McCain's greatest moment in public speaking. He kept fucking up because he was having trouble with the teleprompter, which made him appear somewhat feeble and confused. Even Mort Kondracke from FOX News said he looked "old," and to have a crusty old geezer like Kondracke say that means he REALLY looked old. Like pop in a rerun of Lawrence Welk and break out the Werther's Originals old.
If you read the text of his speech, it's actually not bad at all. He immediately starts assuring the public that he is not running for George W. Bush's third term (if I believed he were, by the way, I would NOT vote for him, as while I love bush when it means "pussy," I HATE Bush when it means "inept, corrupt president"), and explains how severely he disagrees with the Bush administration's management of the war. This is one of the primary reasons I am voting for McCain. I hate the Iraq War (and I don't think ANYONE likes it or thinks it was a good idea), but now that we are there, our brave troops and the people of Iraq deserve to have it handled by someone who will look out for their best interests and the interests of the American people, rather than covering their asses politically and sinking deeper into the quagmire as Bush has done. He also points out that things would get even more fucked up if we just say, "Oops, sorry, our bad!" and blindly withdraw as Obama would like us to do.
However, thanks to the teleprompter dicking around McCain's game, he didn't get this out in a way that was stirring or galvanizing. Next to Obama's typical motivational speaker style, he looked like a shambling old man. I blame the teleprompter, because there's no way McCain would look that way if it weren't for technical difficulties. If McCain can handle five years at the Hanoi Hilton, he can handle a little speech about his own awesomeness. He can also certainly READ, so I doubt that his ability to "use" the teleprompter was an issue. It had to be some kind of teleprompter malfunction. Yeah, that's the ticket.
Therefore, I say a big "FUCK YOU" to the teleprompter and expect that those issues will be resolved now that McCain is gearing up to totally own Obama in the general election campaign. JOHN! MC! CAIN! JOHN! MC! CAIN!
Labels: an officer and a hot piece, computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, John McCain, politics
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Huge load (of shit)
As I mentioned yesterday, I'm bad about checking my razzy@razzy.org e-mail sometimes because the e-mail program sucks and does a terrible job at filtering out spam. Therefore I have to try to sort through all the mail and delete 90% of it before I can read the adoring words from Razzyphiles and the wishes of death, disease, and lifelong misery from Razzy Haters. I'm always astounded at the sheer volume of spam I receive promising enhancement to the form and function of my non-existent penis. Are there really enough guys out there dumb enough to buy something from an e-mail that reads "Make it hard as a br1ck!" or "Pund her hard all nit3 with ur new powerful 1ove mussle fleshrod!" sent from a Czechoslovakian e-mail address that looks like an eye chart and directs you to some sketchy website? There must be, because the flow of this type of spam seems endless. However, I noticed a new variation on the spam theme of penis enhancement that shocked me a little.
"BLOW HER AWAY WITH YOUR BIGGER LOADS!" the e-mail subject proclaimed. Bigger loads? As in more volume of ejaculated semen? I was mystified. What's the point of that? Surely this means something else.
I hit the internets, and sure enough, that is EXACTLY what this spam was selling. I found a website promising all sorts of ridiculous benefits to using "sperm enhancing" products called VolumePills (which supposedly "allow any man to cum like a porn star") and Semenax (which supposedly "gives you the ability to shoot a load as far and as powerful as anyone you have ever seen in a movie"):
After a quick read of the propaganda, I was even more mystified by this line of bullshit. It's news to me that "being able to produce a massive amount of semen is the key to getting more women." I've slept with my fair share of dudes and never once has my qualification pre-screening (translation: buy me a drink and tell me I'm pretty and/or smart) involved determining whether or not they can blow a Peter North-sized load. I don't usually care much one way or the other, and I have sort of a semen fetish. I love it when guys do hot porn star shit with their jizz. While I don't like taking it to the face without being warned first, I DO like it when guys give me pearl necklaces or shout "DRAINAGE!" when they're spraying all over my ass and lower back. Nonetheless, I have never heard "a woman talk about a man who shoots a small load without laughing" as the website suggests. In fact, I've never heard women talk about this much at all. Usually, we ladies only care about semen in that it doesn't taste bad, it doesn't stink, it isn't chunky or otherwise possibly diseased, and you don't get it in our eyes, because a cumshot to the peepers stings like a bitch. I've never thought, "Wow, that was a pretty pathetic paltry volume of ejaculate. What a loser."
After a quick read of the propaganda, I was even more mystified by this line of bullshit. It's news to me that "being able to produce a massive amount of semen is the key to getting more women." I've slept with my fair share of dudes and never once has my qualification pre-screening (translation: buy me a drink and tell me I'm pretty and/or smart) involved determining whether or not they can blow a Peter North-sized load. I don't usually care much one way or the other, and I have sort of a semen fetish. I love it when guys do hot porn star shit with their jizz. While I don't like taking it to the face without being warned first, I DO like it when guys give me pearl necklaces or shout "DRAINAGE!" when they're spraying all over my ass and lower back. Nonetheless, I have never heard "a woman talk about a man who shoots a small load without laughing" as the website suggests. In fact, I've never heard women talk about this much at all. Usually, we ladies only care about semen in that it doesn't taste bad, it doesn't stink, it isn't chunky or otherwise possibly diseased, and you don't get it in our eyes, because a cumshot to the peepers stings like a bitch. I've never thought, "Wow, that was a pretty pathetic paltry volume of ejaculate. What a loser."
I also don't believe that "men who shoot weak loads are often timid and meek." One of my high school boyfriends was timid and meek, and he produced such copious volumes of cum that after sex I would have to change my pants because my entire pelvic area from stem to stern would be so goddamn sodden. It made sex in the car (the number one preferred location for illicit teenaged high school sex) a royal pain in the ass in terms of mess, too. In fact, the only advantage I can think of regarding making lots of baby gravy is that it's probably easier to knock a girl up with, which is an undesirable thing in my book. Supporting this theory is the fact that my high school boyfriend now has two kids.
This sounds to me like a marketing myth that, for whatever reason, men are especially susceptible to, or what I call the "strap-on blowjob" phenomenon. In porn, you always see chicks sucking some other chick's strap-on, and the recipient is always moaning and acting like it's driving her wild. While I guess it's mentally kind of hot to see that and it makes practical sense to lube up your dildo, it's not like the chick wearing the strap-on can actually feel the fabulous blowjob she's getting. Having used strap-ons to bang chicks myself, I can say with certainty that the real trick to using one is learning how to work your partner's cooch blindly. When you're fingerbanging a chick or licking her snatch, you can get the lay of the land by touch. With a strap-on, you have to rely on your instincts, because you can't feel anything that's going on in there. In fact, when I first started using it last year, I had a terrible time even figuring out the correct angle to even commence penetration (thanks to all your helpful tips, by the way, that has now been resolved). The point is that the strap-on blowjobs so common to pornography are believable only to men, whose own love of fellatio render them especially gullible when it comes to buying that this act is awesome for the woman receiving it. The concept that blowing a gigantic load is guaranteed to get a guy laid like Hugh Hefner is the strap-on blowjob of penis enhancement lore.
Ladies can feel free to tell me that I'm wrong and that they actually do give a flying reverse piledriver about how much semen a man can produce with any given orgasm, but I am pretty confident that the vast majority of bitches DO NOT CARE. So, guys, save your money. Your ejaculate's size is much less important than its texture, smell, and taste. Besides, these pills probably don't work anyway. If you buy them, then it will actually hinder your chances of getting laid because it will demonstrate to all your prospective sex partners that you are STUPID.
Labels: gross, lezbollah, perversion, porn, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
Daily Douchebag: Nick Bollea AGAIN
Alias: Nick Hogan
DOB: July 27, 1990
Occupation: despicable pussy
Hometown: Clearwater, Florida
Current residence: Pinellas County Jail, Clearwater, Florida
Douchebaggery: I previously douchebagged Nick Hogan for being an overcompensating tool with a small penis as evidenced by his love of recklessly driving tricked-out sportscars. This behavior has only been encouraged by his insane and disgusting family. His father, legendary WWE wrestler Hulk Hogan, decided to let Hulkamania run wild one night in the form of buying beer for his son, then letting him take out his Supra for some illegal drag racing on the streets of Clearwater, Florida. Consequently, Nick's dumb drunk teenage ass wrapped the car around a telephone pole, and his passenger, U.S. Marine John Graziano, is in a permanent vegetative state. For this, Nick was rightfully sentenced to eight months in jail, which is pretty fucking lenient, considering that John Graziano now looks like this:
Since he began serving his sentence, Nick and the Hogans have done nothing but whine and try to shirk responsibility. First, Hulk blamed John Graziano, saying that this was God's way of giving him "heavy shit" for things he was "into." From what I can tell, John Graziano was "into" serving his country and not wearing his seatbelt. Unless John Graziano is a modern-day Job, I find it hard to believe that either semper-ing fi with the Marine Corps or neglecting to buckle up are divinely punishable by loss of cognitive function and a lifetime feeding tube. Then, Linda Hogan bitched that John Graziano's mother is "nasty and vindictive," and accused her of being greedy rather than actually caring about her son, for filing a civil suit against the Hogans for money to support a lifetime of nursing home bills for her son. Because the world is overflowing with sympathy for the poor family that bought their teenaged son a garage full of expensive customized sportscars, then provided said son with booze and sent him out on public city streets to race other small penised dipshits. I mean, come on, the inevitable horrific car crash was totally the passenger's fault, and it's just SO unfair that Nick Hogan has to serve less than a year in prison for ruining a young man's life.
Now, just to be extra obnoxious about their "Nick is a victim" position, the Hogans' attorney is moving that Nick get out of jail and serve his sentence under house arrest, because he hates prison. Nick is in solitary confinement, because at 17, he is too young to be placed with the general population. His lawyer says that this causes him "unbearable anxiety" and this just isn't fair. I will be enraged if they let this asshole out. For one thing, isn't prison supposed to totally suck? Isn't that the POINT of prison? It's intended to suck to punish people for their crimes, which I think drunken drag racing qualifies as. I'm sure the prison infirmary can hook him up with a Xanax and a children's book for his "anxiety." And as far as "unbearable anxiety" is concerned, Nick should thank his lucky stars he's feeling it regarding solitary confinement, because I guarantee his pussy ass (literally) would be anxious about a hell of a lot more if he were sharing a cell with the cornhole queen of the Pinellas County jail. His anxiety would be even more unbearable every time he was tapped to hit the damn showers.
The judge better not let Nick's bitch ass out because he doesn't like jail. I'm sure that John Graziano's family doesn't like the fact that their son is a drooling vegetable with a crater in his forehead either, but unfortunately for them, they can't appeal to the sympathies of a court to remedy John's situation. I say that instead they should extend Nick's sentence for being a simpering crybaby bitch audaciously unwilling to take responsibility for ruining his friend's life through sheer arrogant, hubristic negligence, at least long enough to put him in the general population so some giant skinhead can rape some humility into him.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, small penises
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: President William Jefferson Clinton
DOB: August 19, 1946
Occupation: 42nd president of the United States of America; arrogant hot piece
Hometown: Hope, Arkansas
Current residence: Chappaqua, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I know that these days I'm all about McCain and being an asshole Republican, but I have always liked Bill Clinton. He is the world's greatest bullshit artist, and when he was president, it didn't matter what the hell he was saying. All he had to do was start orating and I'd be like, "Yeah, sounds good, Bill," no matter what came out of his mouth. He was the political equivalent of a snake charmer, and I have to respect that. Even when the whole Monica Lewinsky thing blew up, I was fully on Team Clinton, if only because I think the most powerful man in the free world SHOULD be getting blowjobs from whoever he wants. You know Hillary wasn't doing any sword swallowing, so the least America could do is give the man a break for getting some damn head to unwind; being president is mad stressful, so at the very least, he should get a little slack for wanting to relax a little bit with a good old-fashioned American knob polishing.
Now, I like Bill Clinton even more. Yesterday, this long-ass article in Vanity Fair dropped talking about all the hijinks--or, to use author Todd Purdum's words, "sins against decorum"--Bill has been up to since he moved his office out of the White House to Harlem. Among other things, Bill Clinton has been tooling around with playboy billionaires Steve Bing, Ron Burkle, and the hooker-hiring, "sex toy(s) and genitalia-shaped soap"-possessing Jeffrey Epstein, flying in their private jets (such as Burkle's awesomely named "Air Fuck One"), commanding six-figure speaker fees, and banging Gina Gershon, probably because he was inspired by her softcore girl-girl work in films like (perennial Smith College favorite) Bound and Showgirls. He's apparently been skirt chasing all over the world when he's not involved in shady business dealings with various shady rich guys, and Todd Pudnum is painting this as a bad thing. Later yesterday, Clinton's people shot back with a lengthy memo breaking down everything that's supposedly made up because Todd Purdum is a source-fabricating liar married to Clinton's former press secretary Dee Dee Myers, who left the Clinton White House acrimoniously.
I don't care if any of this stuff is made up, because I think it's awesome. Clinton spent eight years building the strongest economy in American history and serving the American people admirably, and I think he SHOULD be getting laid whenever and with whoever he likes (although maybe the stuff about Gina Gershon isn't true, since she's a little skinny for Bill's typical chubby-chasing taste). I think Bill Clinton should hang around with whatever rich assholes he likes and fly in private jets everywhere he goes. It's not like Hillary is actually going to beat Obama, so who cares what kind of ramifications Bill's antics have on her campaign? Her ass is going down like Monica on her husband, so I say let the Silver Fox go out and enjoy the millions he's made whoring himself out like the player he is.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, politics, President William Jefferson Clinton
Monday, June 02, 2008
A post about tits that aren't mine (for once)
I've always liked Christina Aguilera. She's clearly a total skank, and she's embraced it and really run with it. Back in the day when Eminem said that she was giving blowjobs to Carson Daly and Fred Durst and suggested she gave him a venereal disease, her supposed righteous outrage was scarcely believable, because it wasn't a stretch to imagine all those douchebags running a train on her. Even during her "Genie in a Bottle" days, you could tell that under her thin veneer of wholesomeness dwelt an unrepentant slut-ass ho. I like unrepentant slut-ass hoes.
That's why I was disappointed when Xtina got married and pregs and seemed to dial down the hooker factor. Okay, so she still rocks cocksucker red lipstick to the grocery store and looks like a blow-up doll hit with a spray can of orange paint, but every time you see her, she's walking around with her kid and husband (and I'm totally jealous, because Xtina obviously shares my lust for nerdy Jews), and generally not being as slutty as she was back in the day when she had cheap hair extensions and was rolling around with some simulated Thai prostitutes in a boxing ring wearing assless chaps. In fact, the only redeeming quality as far as the new, married-skanky Xtina goes versus the old, completely-skanky Xtina is concerned is her massive, post-pregnancy boobs.
Now, Christina always had a nice set of sweater puppies, but after her kid, they increased about ten cup sizes. They are such a pair of veritable melons that you could cut them open, scoop out the seeds, and make a fucking fruit salad. I initially figured that this was related to pregnancy and breast feeding. However, her kid is six months old, and I thought that by then, pregnant titties go back to normal. Being that I was never pregnant myself for more than a few weeks, I don't know if this is completely true and bitches with babies can correct me if I'm wrong, but I recently started being suspicious of those giant jugs.
I know that Xtina was rumored to have undergone a scheduled C-section to deliver baby Max, but now I'm wondering if that was the only surgery she had. Now, thanks to some recent photos from the celebrity gossip internets, I have my answer.
Yep, Christina had implants for sure. You can see the scars (which I have conveniently pointed out for you thanks to the miracle of Photoshop), and her tits look totally misshapen. Normal breasts aren't supposed to have creases or odd bulges in them, unless there's a big pouch of saline or silicone in there. I don't know why she bothered to get this done, because her tits were great before.
I don't have a problem with breast implants. I think that enough women are afflicted with feeling shitty about their bodies, and this shittiness is so often associated with their breasts, that if implants make her feel better about herself, then go for it. Granted, I'm not the world's biggest fan of the way implants--especially large ones--feel when you're busy trying to grab at or lick or suck on a chick's boobs, but I understand why women get them and that's their business. However, when a chick gets egregiously large implants and winds up looking like she got a discount titty job to help augment her webcam masturbation business, I feel sad. Xtina had a beautiful body and didn't need these basketballs stuck under her pectoral muscles. She's always been pretty heavily shellacked in terms of fake hair and makeup, but I think the boobs just took it from trashily hot into clown territory. It's not too late to get them taken out and blame it on the baby.
Labels: gross, oh the horror, plastic surgery, sluts
I'm behind and I'm sorry!
So I just checked my RAZZY.org e-mail (which is something I don't do as often as I should, mainly because there's so much spam that it's aggravating sorting through it to find real e-mail from Razzyphiles and Razzy Haters), and was distressed to see that I'm getting WAY behind on my e-mail returning. I try to be good about this, but sometimes I just get sidetracked. If you've written to me lately, you might be thinking to yourself, "Who does that fucking bitch think she is to not respond? I took time to give her excellent tips and supportive words on quitting smoking or dealing with post-abortion stress/depression, or inquire about various internet, sex, and/or science-related things, or tell her she rules, or tell her I hate her, or suggest a daily dude/douchebag, or send a link to a funny news story! Talk about UNGRATEFUL to her readers!"
Well, I don't think I'm too good to return your e-mails. I just have a high standard for wit in e-mail responses, and I haven't had time to devote the attention they deserve. Therefore, I want to apologize for not getting around to this, and let you know that it isn't you, it's me. I love the fact that you all read what I put a lot of time and energy into writing, and I sincerely appreciate your making the effort to respond to it. I promise that I WILL get back to you...eventually. It's a busy time for me, what with R. Kelly on trial, and a full agenda of mice to kill, and an upcoming trip to New Orleans this weekend, so please be patient.
And in the meantime, as a token of my appreciation to all Razzyphiles and readers (whether corresponding with me or not), here's me showing some love in the form of tits, because while I'm certain you ALL read my website for the stunningly brilliant articles, nothing says "I love you" like an impromptu shot of my unshowered, barely awake self showing my cans at 6 a.m.
Labels: correspondence, excuses, nudity, Razzification, Razzy Haters, Razzyphiles
Daily Douchebag: Sex and the City
DOB: May 30, 2008
Occupation: making women look like a bunch of desperate, haggard, vapid idiots
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: a theater near you
Douchebaggery: I've gone off on Sex and the City before, and thought that I exorcised my annoyance with this show then. Now that this trash has been made into a movie, I've realized that I have a bottomless well of hatred for Carrie Bradshaw et al.
"But Razzy," you might say. "This show is all about women having lots of sex! Isn't that exactly what you are all about?"
Perhaps, if these women were having lots of sex and being awesome about it, I would raise a glass of scotch in honor of this show. However, any sex that actually gets had on the show does little to mitigate the abhorrent characters that, as a woman, I'm supposed to relate to. While I'm currently sitting on my bed in my New York City apartment typing away at my MacBook like Carrie Bradshaw always does, and while certainly some readers will suggest that I'm also a geriatric, unattractive, withered 29-year-old prune, that is where the similarities end. I'm not thinking a bunch of trite thoughts about my "woman's right to shoes" or pondering the ins and outs of how men and women relate to one another in a heavy-handed way, and I'm certainly not doing voice-over in my head about what I'm writing.
Sure, every once in awhile I post my dumb girl thoughts about being a dumb girl, like about the boys I like, boys I liked, boys I liked once but now hate, etc. However, those introspective, oh-yeah-I-guess-I-am-a-girl posts are usually few and far between. I certainly am not going to waste anyone's time regularly debating whether or not I like so-and-so and trying to present my own personal drama as a microcosm of how all relationships are or should be. First off, God help the world if a completely incompetent relationship-haver like either myself or Carrie Bradshaw is considered some sort of sage with great philsophical insight into love or relationships. Carrie Bradshaw is all hung up on Mr. Big--who is WAY better when he's playing Detective Mike Nolan--the same way I'm hung up on my former paramour the R-uh. I don't talk about that much, because nobody wants to hear me vacillating about my feelings concerning old relationship skeletons in the closet. Besides, HotLawyer once pointed out that when I talk about the R-uh, I go to "a very dark place" and that's certainly no good for me. Therefore, all you're ever going to hear about regarding the R-uh are gross stories about anal sex bloopers, not a bunch of sad stories about the many, many reasons things between us got fucked up (or were fucked to begin with) and trying to make emotional sense out of it. I'll save that for my shrink. If only Carrie Bradshaw's lame ass would follow a similar policy regarding Mr. Lameass Big. I could care less whether she ever finds her peace about that douchebag, and I certainly don't care to watch a movie that features their presumably doomed attempt at nuptials.
I also truly hate the generalizations about women that Carrie's dumb ass makes as she writes her shiteous columns. If she's any indication, then all bitches are like her: superficial, frivolous fag hags with careers that are secondary to their shopping habits and their boy problems. Sure, I like new clothes and cute shoes, and I sometimes get distracted by drama in my love life. However, there is NO FUCKING WAY I would drop everything and move to Paris to be with some snobby, old Russian ballerina, just like there's no fucking way I would drop everything and move back to be with an asshole like Mr. Big. Of course I know many women who have changed their plans to accommodate their relationships, and this is fine. In most of those cases, my female friends made some sort of compromise with their partner, which you have to do to make a relationship (or a marriage) work. However, when Carrie acts like it's a perfectly normal female response to ask "how high?" when a douchebag says "jump," she does women everywhere a disservice. This show doesn't demonstrate that a woman can have a career and a relationship at the same time; it demonstrates that a woman can have a career until some dude shows up, dickmatizes her, and makes her throw it all away so that she can be with him. Even Samantha, the only bitch on this show I remotely like, eventually falls into the trap of accommodating her gay-looking model boyfriend unconditionally.
It's hard enough to get through one paltry 30 minute "Sex and the City" episode, much less a two hour movie. If they cut out every part except where Samantha is screwing around, then maybe I would consider illegally downloading it. However, one of my neighbors told me that she saw it and there was hardly any sex in it, so that's all I need to know in order to not see this trash. My friend JerseyGirl once said of my movie taste, "If there's not murder, explosions, or people getting fucked, Razzy's not going to like it." Since I suspect that there aren't any murder or explosions in Sex and the City, and since there's apparently minimal people getting fucked, I'll pass on these dried-up old shoe whores permanently. Unless by some miracle the sequel to this movie (which has already been given the go-ahead) is called Sex and the City vs. Predator, I'm staying the hell away from these cosmo-swilling grannies.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, movies, retard rage, Sex and the City, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Gianna Vigliotti
RAZZY Note: This is not Gianna Vigliotti. Gianna's Facebook profile is set to private, so I couldn't get hold of a decent sized picture of her, and her profile pic thumbnail was a barely viewable four-paneled Andy Warhol MacBook picture anyway. Therefore, I just went over to guidofistpump.com and found a picture of a lovely lady who most closely approximates what I imagine Gianna looks like. Okay, so maybe this girl is from Jersey rather than Strong Island, but whatever. Same difference.
DOB: 1991 (???--and holy shit, I feel old remembering that today's idiot teens were born in the 90s)
Occupation: creative liar, drunk driver, makeout slut
Hometown: Commack, New York (per her Facebook)
Current residence: Manhasset, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally I don't applaud drunk drivers, since even though I have--ahem--driven around after more than a few cocktails before, it's nothing I'm proud of, and I'm glad I live in New York City now where this is not an issue for me since I don't have a car and there are cabs everywhere. However, I have to give 17-year-old Gianna props for her rock star skills at trying to skate on a DUI.
Last Friday, Gianna'