Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Justin Timberlake
Name: Justin Randall Timberlake
DOB: January 31, 1981
Occupation: a fashion maven in his own deluded mind
Hometown: Shelby Forest, Tennessee
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I used to like JT back in the day. I thought *NSYNC was hilarious (although Joey the Fatone was really my favorite of all the guys) and I've been known to slay "Bye Bye Bye" in karaoke after a few cocktails. I also enjoyed Justin's solo work...until every girly girl in the world decided that he was the second coming of Elvis and forced me to endure an endless spinning of Future Sex/Love Sounds. Even though that shit is like two years old, it's STILL the only thing my friend MillerTime listens to in her car. And after my friend Wmania's bachelorette party, she insisted that we all dance to "Love Stoned" in her condo SEVERAL times. "Oh my GOD, dude, this song is like, the greatest song ever. It is SO HOT. How can you not like this?" she kept asking. LL Cool Jew and I just sat on the couch drinking beer and bitching about the Justin Timberlake-playing meat market club we had just escaped, where we were hit on by Karl Rove's nephew (or some prominent neo-con's nephew, I can't remember who because I was trying to drink the pain of the whole incident away).
Girls who love Sex and the City love Justin Timberlake and think he's hot. I think he's a testicularly challenged one-trick pony who bit David Silver's style and sings like a girl. Trust that my twat doesn't get all tingly when he shows up in his trucker hat to warble in the falsetto register and act like he's the first genius who decided to wear a wife beater. As a matter of fact, given his latest asshole comments to the press, I would not be surprised if he took credit for inventing that treasured bit of white trash couture either.
Apparently, JT decided to start beef with notorious COOLPIX camera pranking, manpri-sporting, "matchy matchy" douchebag fashionista extraordinaire Ashton Kutcher over who started the fucking TRUCKER HAT craze of 2003. In a recent interview, Justin said the following:
It's funny, I keep hearing Ashton Kutcher say how he was responsible for trucker caps. Me and my friend Trace Ayala were wearing them when we were 17.
WHO TAKES CREDIT FOR STARTING THE TRUCKER HAT FAD??? That's like taking credit for starting the overalls-with-one-strap-undone trend of 1991, or the stirrup-stretch-pants-with-slouch-socks-and-Keds trend of 1987, or the floral-rayon-dress-with-hiking-boots trend of 1994. You don't hear the douchebag who started wearing "Big Johnson" or "Coed Naked" shirts demanding that the public recognize his obnoxious taste in clothes. Even worse, it foments a douche-off between two of the most despicable trendsetters in teen fashion. You know Ashton Kutcher is going to respond with this, probably by some stupid prank that will inspire more eye rolls than laughter, and those of us who suckle celebrity gossip from the internets like beer from a tap will be forced to endure a neverending back-and-forth about who has perpetrated more crimes upon popular dressing.
Furthermore, I beg to differ with Justin's claim that he discovered this amazing fashion accessory when he was 17 (which would have been 1998). I can attest that all my uncles, as well as the majority of red-blooded truck-driving men in Puyallup, Washington were rocking their "CAT" and "John Deere" millinery as long as I can remember. Just because my uncles aren't rocking their forest camouflage "STIHL" gear (which probably came complimentary with their new chainsaw) on any red carpets doesn't mean that they weren't down with the local fashion long before Justin Timberlake ever put on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. Being that Justin is from a hick town himself, he should know that claiming to have pioneered this look is as intellectually dishonest as claiming he invented double-wides or instructing the masses regarding the pragmatic value of auto parts store-insignia-stamped beer cozies.
Even JT's attempts at being self-deprecating about his tremendous influence on the fashion world are infuriating. Later in the interview, he says, "Honestly, I don't walk out of my house thinking, 'Man, I hope somebody thinks this looks cool!' There's some stuff I wear that people think is not cool." Hmmm...you mean stuff like TRUCKER HATS? Because indeed I don't think that is cool. I think it is a contrived attempt to steal credit for accessories popularized by legendary designers like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy, and it doesn't score him any points with me that plagiarizing redneck chic is so effortless for Justin. Then again, I would expect nothing less from the knuckle-dragger that gave us the unbelievably annoying term "wardrobe malfunction." His whole life has been a damn wardrobe malfunction. Someone should pop a trucker cap in his ass, already.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, PWT, ranting, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
DOB: November 21, 2008
Occupation: ruling your face off
Hometown: London, England (oh, oops, it looks like some of this was filmed in Norway too)
Current residence: post-production
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I am completely and totally unashamed about the fact that I love Harry Potter in a serious way. When book 7 dropped, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, and I went to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble to pick up our pre-ordered copies of HP and the DH, and were so eager that we cut in front of not one but TWO groups of children so as not to delay our gratification. Yeah, I know it's kind of an asshole move to cut in front of kids, but their arguments are easily quelled by some grown-up bitchery and as far as I am concerned, it's just Darwinism in action. It's not my problem if those dumb ten-year-olds with fake glasses, drawn-on lightning bolt scars, and Warner Brothers' sanctioned Gryffindor robes can't adapt to the selection pressures of the Harry Potter book release line.
Sadly, since there aren't any more Harry Potter books coming out, I've got to get excited about the movies coming out. Luckily, there are three more to look forward to (HP and the DH has been split into two movies), so I have plenty of Harry Potter geekery to look forward to for the next few years. Last summer when HP and the OOTP came out, Rack, TheOldGuy, FalloniusMonk, and I ate some really awesome special brownies and saw it in 3-D IMAX, and it was truly amazing. I even went to see it again with JerseyGirl later, and I never go see movies twice in the theater. I didn't even see Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in the theater more than once, and that's my favorite movie ever (although in fairness, I didn't have a spare eight hours to kill after the first time I saw it to accommodate a repeat theater visit for LOTR: ROTK).
Anyway, to ensure my unbridled excitement over the next few months, the trailer for HP and the HBP has been released and I'm fucking thrilled. Okay, they don't show the part where Dumbledore's homo ass bites it courtesy of Severus Snape, but I guess that wouldn't make it much of a teaser trailer. And oops, did I say that? Yeah, Dumbledore totally gets avada kedavre-d by Snape at the end. Sorry to spoil it, but if you haven't read the book by now, that's what you get for slacking. Also, the chick in The Crying Game is really a dude, and Bruce Willis is dead the whole time in The Sixth Sense. If you can't get on this shit when it's hot, then get over it!
So back to Harry Potter...this movie looks like it's going to totally rock everyone's face off, as per usual. If only it had Daniel Radcliffe's barely legal weiner in it, it would be perfect. I guess I'll have to go see Equus for that and content myself with the fact that Harry Potter is awesome enough to accommodate the lack of teenage male nudity and the presence of a few despicable children in the audience with me.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, Harry Potter, I LOVE IT, movies
How the mighty have fallen
Chasey Lain is a famous porn star from the 1990s. Even people who aren't total pervs like me and follow the smut industry to the point of reading porn blogs may have heard of Chasey Lain, because the Bloodhound Gang (of "you and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel" fame) had a song entitled "The Ballad of Chasey Lain." As you might imagine, that was an incredibly romantic love song featuring lines like "show 'em them titties", "as your biggest fan, I must demand that you let me eat your ass", "you've had a lotta dick, Chasey, but you ain't had mine," and "would you fuck me for blow?"
Well, it turns out that Chasey probably would. In fact, if a would-be paramour was fresh out of powder cocaine, she'd probably fuck the lucky guy for crack. Or meth. Or spray glue. While ten years ago, Chasey was a pretty hot piece of ass and plied her cinematic craft to make numerous rubworthy masterpieces (and some pretty boring couples-oriented boy-girl scenes too–and even though that link is to some seriously snoreworthy porn, mind clicking it at work). She was a Vivid contract girl and undoubtedly inspired a respectable amount of fan masturbation.
Unfortunately, the years have not been kind to Chasey, and she DOES NOT look like that anymore. In the past, there have been all sorts of rumors going on about her. She's been reported as dead several times, was involved with a boyfriend's murder, and has supposed links to the Russian mob. While thanks to her porn fortune or her rumored ties to organized crime, she drives a $250,000 Rolls Royce, recent evidence surfaced indicating that she has also picked up a raging drug habit and a bad case of busted crackwhore in the looks department.
The other week, Chasey went to shoot a scene with Donny Long, who is a dickhead director and producer notorious for shooting his mouth off to the adult industry blogs about people he hates. Most recently, he's been catching a lot of flack for getting into a feud with male talent ChristianXXX, and calling him a "tranny-fucker" and a big flaming 'mo. ChristianXXX is pissed because even though he did a few gay titles early in his career, he thinks (probably correctly) that Donny Long is hurting his industry reputation by telling young actresses that he'll give them AIDS and they shouldn't work with (ie: be anally reamed by) him. ChristianXXX has responded in the respectable way one would expect a porn star of his sophistication and elegance to: by saying that Donny Long literally stinks and whining about it on his blog. Because the porn "press" has nothing better to do than cover every bit of backstabbing trash talk, you can read all about their petty squabbles by searching either of their names on any given porn news site. It's all very mature, which is why I follow it. I'm hoping to pick up some pointers on professionalism from these classy guys.
Anyway, Donny Long was supposed to shoot a scene with Chasey Lain, and needless to say, she showed up acting like a full-on raging tweaker mess. Unfortunately for her, Donny Long just discovered YouTube, and shared the whole debacle with the world. Chasey shows up, dicks around, makes a zillion completely incoherent arguments about wanting "a handwritten contract" stipulating more money to shoot hardcore stills as well as video, claims she's going to wear a tampon throughout (GROSS), and eventually threatens to send her hit man boyfriend after Donny Long. At that point, Long fires her ("get your meth out of my studio, you fucking crack whore") and follows her out of his studio, where he captures her supposedly lighting up her crack pipe in the backseat. The videos are sort of long, but nonetheless worth watching, particularly if you're in a crappy mood and wondering if there's any way your life could get worse. Your life could be much, much worse. You could be Chasey Lain.
Labels: drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, sluts, tragedy
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Running late
So I'm running late today. Last night I went out for beers and bar trivia with Twathopper, FalloniusMonk, and JerseyGirl, and we all swore it would be an "early night." With such good intentions, it's pretty predictable that I got home at 3 a.m. and now I'm running late. I'll catch up later today!
Labels: excuses
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 5 DVDs!
DOB: July 29, 2008
Occupation: THE GREATEST SHOW IN THE HISTORY OF TELEVISION
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: en route to my lab from Barnes and Noble's warehouse
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Many great happenings occur during Bev Niner season 5, but quite possibly the pinnacle of a mountain of awesomeness is the arrival of one hot-ass bitch named VALERIE MALONE:
Valerie was the replacement for the tempestuous and bitchy cunt Brenda Walsh, who moved to attend theater school in London when Shannen Doherty was fired for being a bitchy cunt in real life to her castmates. Luckily, Valerie brought the drama to fill Brenda's void, and exponentially improved on it. Brenda was always busy throwing fits for her parents about her high-and-mighty yet inconsistent principles, whining about Dylan McKay, and doing dumb-ass shit like getting arrested for freeing the cats in Buzzkill Zuckerman's sudden infant death syndrome research lab. Unlike Brenda, who always had some extremely moral pretext for her bitchery, Valerie has no morals whatsoever. She shows up from her hometown of Buffalo acting like a total goody-two-shoes and by the end of the first episode, is smoking pot out of her window at the Walsh house and telling her friend back home, "God, this people are such a bunch of squares."
Valerie goes on to break Steve Sanders's heart, fuck Dylan cross-eyed at a pool hall without telling him she's the new Brenda, invite her friend to town who promptly steals Donna Martin's mother's jewelry, assist Dylan in conning the con artists who stole his millions to get the money back, attempt to extort a guy out of $100,000 by faking a pregnancy, starts the Peach Pit After Dark, fucks a heroin addict and then thinks she has AIDS, tells everyone at the West Beverly 5-year high school reunion that she "works with the poor," bones David Silver and then talks him out of suicide, has about ten million SUPER bitch-offs with Kelly Taylor, scams Donna's professional shopping clients, fucks Donna's abusive musician boyfriend Ray Pruit, gets accidentally date-raped by Noah Hunter after his brother slips a roofie into her merlot, accidentally gets Brandon arrested when she leaves a joint in her car by the registration, fucks her mother's fiancé the night before their wedding, and generally lies, cheats, steals, and manipulates her way into and out of every situation. Valerie is a straight up pot-smoking slut with no apparent conscience, at least not until later episodes when she reveals that she is so damaged because her father raped her repeatedly and she popped a cap in his ass, then passed it off as a suicide. In other words, she may be the most entertaining Bev Niner character ever to grace the greatest show on earth.
Anyway, I can hardly wait until my DVDs arrive and my girls and I can pull up a sixer of brew dogs and a large selection of pepperoni pizza at JerseyGirl or Twathopper's apartments for some quality Niner time. Thanks to my apartment's paper-thin walls, I've been hearing the theme for the new "90210" issuing from my apparently CW-loving neighbor's apartment for days, so I'm more than in the mood. SEASON FIVE rules so hard!
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, sluts, TV
Daily Douchebag: Alexandra Wells and Alyssa Waldrop
DOB: 1986-1990
Occupation: the oldest profession
Hometown: ???
Current residence: a jail cell in Lake Ozark, Missouri
Douchebaggery: The lovely ladies pictured above are both in the family way, and were undoubtedly stressing a little about how to pay the bills once they had another mouth to feed around the house (or possibly, the sleazy no-tell motel room in which they reside). Therefore, with no marketable skills save using buttfuckmissouri.craigslist.org and taking dick, they resorted to a seemingly natural line of work: prostitution.
This in itself isn't all that unusual. What is unusual about them is that their ring consisted entirely of pregnant women, and this was a selling point. While on one hand, I congratulate the ladies on their business acumen for targeting a probably untapped niche market, on the other, I say a big "ew, GROSS!" for catering to a fetish I've never understood. It's probably not a very enlightened thing to say, but I feel like pregnant women are kind of nasty. They have a lot of gas and stretch marks, and they're always pigging out, and I worry that their twats might be...I don't know, weird. When mice get knocked up, they develop a big mucus plug in there, and I'm pretty sure that human mammals do too. SICK!
It also seems like sex with a heavily pregnant chick would be really challenging. You certainly are limited in terms of positions, and I'd be worried about screwing something up. Like, what if you were doing the chick doggystyle and things got crazy and the baby got squished into whatever surface you were doing it on (in this case, a jizz-spattered by-the-hour bed)? I don't know if that can happen, but it seems like you could really fuck up a third trimester fetus by trying some of the positions I assume are part of any decent working girl's repertoire. It seems like you could also really fuck up a dude trying some more adventurous positions. For example, the kind of middle-aged, overweight, out-of-shape dude in a ratty Chiefs sweatshirt that I presume patronizes a heavily pregs rural Missourian hooker could throw his back out if he tried to execute the wheelbarrow and thus support all that weight with his lumbar spine. These hookers were courting danger as well as my symptoms of nausea.
Overall, I'm glad these bitches have ceased mining the internets for pervs interested in pregnant dick. I'm sure their babies will thank them for getting arrested at some point, since they probably are going to have difficult enough childhoods without having to worry about getting a perinatal herpes infection on the way out of their skank moms' high-traffic twats. Eight month pregnant hoes are something that does not need to be on the open pussy market. Justice is served like these bitches' customers won't be.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, sex
Monday, July 28, 2008
This all kinds of WRONG
I was horrified to see THIS on the celebrity gossip internets over the weekend:
NOOOOOOOOO! How DARE you, Robert Rodriguez and Rose McGowan? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?!?!?! I am used to arrogant Hollywood assholes thinking that they can improve classic movies that did not in any way need an update, but doing this to Red Sonja is my breaking point.
If you haven't seen the original Red Sonja, then you are a communist, terrorist, or some other type of all-around freedom-hating dickwad degenerate with absolutely no taste. I can't tell you what Red Sonja is really about, except that Brigitte Nielsen runs around in a chain-mail negligee with Arnold Schwarzenegger in full Conan regalia and star of the woefully underappreciated series "Sidekicks" Ernie Reyes, Jr. (capitalizing, no doubt, on the Short Round-induced demand for Asian boy actors with both comic timing and martial arts skills in the early-mid 80s) swordfighting with a variety of ill-favored barbarian types, giant robotic dragon "security systems," and skanky lesbian witch-prostitutes who look fresh off the set of the Mötley Crüe "Looks That Kill" video. It's also produced by Dino de Laurentiis, who is not only responsible for David Lynch's Dune and Blue Velvet, the Conan franchise, Serpico, Death Wish, Orca, and Army of Darkness, but also founded gene pool that spawned my brother's main Food Network would-be girlfriend "Everyday Italian" host Giada de Laurentiis. Red Sonja hardly needs a coherent or memorable plot when it's working with that basic framework of extreme awesomeness.
I cannot see for the life of me how Rose McGowan is going to somehow breathe fresh new life into the role Brigitte Nielsen totally owned. Brigitte Nielsen's film career may have been short, but I nonetheless fully thought that her work as Red Sonja (as well as her roles as Mrs. Ivan Drago in Rocky IV and a hot 80s power lesbian bank robber in Beverly Hills Cop II) is worthy of a fucking Oscar. Furthermore, have you ever suffered through an instance of Rose McGowan performing her craft? Since I didn't bother sitting through the Lord of the Rings-length (and not caliber) Grindhouse, the only thing I can think of are the few episodes of "Charmed" I've seen snippets of on TNT while flipping channels. "Charmed" was generally a televised abortion and a black mark on Aaron Spelling's grand legacy that couldn't even be salvaged by a grossly overdressed Alyssa Milano or Julian McMahon's hot ass. I never really knew what it was about save some lame witches or something, but I can tell you unequivocally that Rose McGowan was no fucking Shannen Doherty, who she replaced. Hell, she wasn't even close to fellow Aaron Spelling drama Shannen Doherty replacement Tiffani-Amber Thiessen on a little (greatest show in the history of television) program known as "Beverly Hills, 90210." Lucky for her she was banging Robert Rodriguez (after twatmatizing him sufficiently to get him to leave his wife and four kids) when casting was going on for Red Sonja, because Rose McGowan couldn't act her way into my grade school's production of "Jack and the Beanstalk." She's going to make Brigitte Nielsen look like Katharine fucking Hepburn with the extent of her theatrical butchery of Red Sonja, and I hope she gets AIDS from the bloody sword she's licking in the promo poster.
This news is so upsetting that I almost forgot about another disturbing development in the world of reviving 80s cinema classics: Darren Aronofsky is on board to direct a sequel/remake to one of the finest action films of all time:
NOOOOO!!!! Not RoboCop, too! This doesn't bode well. Rather than making movie magic, Hollywood has turned into an abattoir engaged in the wholesale slaughter of its own classic material. I have a very bad feeling that any day I'm going to hear I can look forward to a remake of Red Dawn starring Justin Timberlake, Shia LaBoeuf, Brody Jenner, Miley Cyrus, and Lindsay Lohan in my local multiplex. That day will be the day I purchase a samurai sword and start looking for the sweet spot on my gut. Trust.
Labels: movies, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Shigeo Tokuda
DOB: 1933?
Occupation: porn star
Hometown: Tokyo, Japan
Current residence: Tokyo, Japan
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every time I watch something Japanese, I'm sort of mystified and confused by a lot of what goes on. Probably there's a lot lost in translation, but generally I find Japanese shit strange and befuddling to my American sensibilities. Take suicide, for example. Plenty of people commit suicide around the world, but the Japanese have the market cornered on bizarre movie suicides for no apparent reason. If you watch almost any Japanese movie, from Godzilla v. Mothra all the way to Battle Royale, people are killing themselves right and left just because. In Battle Royale, there is literally one couple who kills themselves because they won't be able to continue their junior high relationship together on account of everyone involved in the titular Battle Royale having to kill each other...and NOT because they've been fitted with an explosive collar around their necks and forced to murder their tween peers.
In some cases, this cultural misunderstanding works well. "MXC: Most Xtreme Challenge" is a fun way to pass time on Spike TV when nothing else is on, and I have adored the original Japanese "Iron Chef" since I first witnessed Chaiman Kaga presiding over the Abalone Battle in Kitchen Stadium years ago. I may have no idea what "skwe-san" means, but I know that if the commentators don't use it to discuss the delicate and impressive manner in which an Iron Chef or his challenger is making swallow's nest and eel ice cream, hell will break loose (actually, the offender would probably just commit suicide). The elements of Japanese culture I don't get often intrigue and amuse me, and many Americans have followed suit. We've thus developed inferior versions of these shows for ourselves, since we seem to share the Japanese people's taste for crazy game shows, campy cooking competitions, karaoke, and pale long-haired ghosts who crawl out of consumer electronics.
That incorporation of classically Japanese entertainment into American culture has also occurred in the world of pornography. My high school boyfriend would always say he was watching "anime," and I'd come over to find him watching some hentai shit where a large-eyed cartoon princess was being fucked in every orifice including ears and nostrils by some kind of grotesque robot praying mantis alien creature with twelve cocks and a giant set of mecha-crab claws. I'm sure that there are at least twenty million other high school boys sitting around whacking it to the same ridiculous cartoons. Although I find it pretty boring and somewhat gross, the sheer volume of various bukkake scenes on the internet indicate that this Japanese brand of porn has also made the leap into an international commodity. For a nation of people who supposedly are always too busy working to have sex, the Japanese love themselves some nasty porn to the point where they've invented new disgusting genres.
Upon learning of new developments in this arena, though, I pray that unlike bukkake and animated alien rape, the new cutting edge trend in Japanese porn will stay on its own side of the Pacific. Apparently the Japanese jerk-off consumers these days are all into GERIATRIC PORN. It's not that I have a problem with sex with older men. I've fucked my share of dudes in their mid-to-late thirties, and there have been more than a few guys in their forties or fifties I've fantasized about. In fact, I'd even consider fucking guys older than that (named John McCain). What I do not really want to do, however, is rub one off to guys who spent their youth trying to rout our forces on Guadalcanal and elsewhere in the Pacific theatre. Enter Shigeo Tokuda, the 74-year-old star of such films as Maniac Training of Lolitas, Grandparents Getting Down, and Forbidden Elderly Care. A recent article by TIME magazine describes Shigeo's niche as portraying "a tactful elderly gentlemen who instructs women of different ages in the erotic arts."
Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo. The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand. He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn. A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details. I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting. I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless. However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job. Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.
Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo. The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand. He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn. A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details. I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting. I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless. However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job. Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, oh the horror, porn, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, sex
Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this
DOB: July 25, 2008
Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism
Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol
Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol
Douchebaggery: I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself. Last Friday night was one of those occasions. My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced. At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production. However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends. There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.
In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED. I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me. With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find. I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home. I was really, really drunk.
That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS. I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much! I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out. "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!? Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?" Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much. As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours. Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.
It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers. I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls). I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit. I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, Rack, Twathopper
Friday, July 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mrs. Officer
DOB: June 10, 2008
Occupation: making me laugh hysterically
Hometown: Hollygrove, New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: my iTunes
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, so I'm hung over and can't really think of anything I am that excited about...except ONE thing: Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter! If you haven't illegally downloaded Tha Carter III yet, you are stupid, because it totally rules and has been on daily rotation on my iTunes. There is one song in particular that makes me seriously laugh out loud every time I hear it, a little tune known as "Mrs. Officer."
This song is a touching ode to the female police office who detains Weezy F. Baby and amazingly, doesn't arrest him. On the contrary, she has other things in mind. Specifically, according to Lil' Wayne, "all she want me to do is fuck the police." Now, while Tha Carter may describe himself as "the hottest hottest under the sun," I assume that refers to his flow and not his actual physical appearance. If I were a female member of New Orleans's finest, I'm not sure that I would be calling my sergeant and telling him I can't finish my shift because I was smitten with Lil' Wayne's seductive ways. I am, however, to let this slide, because "Mrs. Officer" is so awesome that I made it the ringer on my new teenager phone. And if you haven't been blessed with auditory exposure to this jam, consider this your lucky day:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, Lil' Wayne, rap
Daily Douchebag: John Mayer and Pete Wentz
DOB: October 16, 1977 and June 5, 1979
Occupation: apparently, collaborating as a united douchebag front
Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut and Wilmette, Illinois
Current residence: some fucking restaurant in Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Has the seventh seal been broken? Because with the world's most prominent douchebags flocking together, I'm actually praying that the apocalypse is imminent. So maybe nothing happened except the world's undisputed largest douchebag of all time John Mayer got together with Pete Wentz to have a mini douchebag convention/latently homoerotic lunch date. I can just imagine what kind of conversation they had: while going over Pete Wentz's "truckload of big, bold, colorful ideas" and deconstructing the word "douchebag," they had a scintillating discussion about John Mayer's allegedly giant penis and how Pete Wentz cooks up trite Lower East Side bar concepts while whacking off to Morrissey posters. Then they probably exchanged delightful (and by "delightful," I actually mean "nauseating") tales about what it's like to fuck Jennifer Aniston and Ashlee Simpson.
I really wish I was in Los Angeles to crash this little party, because I would have strolled right in and advised them that sleeve tattoos and "guyliner" does not a rock star make. Yes, so Vince Neil circa 1984 (HOT) may have rocked that look, but trust that bitch didn't use a hair straightener back in the day. He was too busy helping Nikki Sixx mainline Jack Daniels, singing "Shout at the Devil," and passing groupies around with his bandmates in between eyeliner applications. Man, Mötley Crüe rocked so hard back in the day. That's why when myself and some fellow drunk-ass sluts made an amateur porn in college we used the Too Fast For Love album as the soundtrack rather than any John Mayer or Pete Wentz-esque musical explorations of sensitivity. I can't think of anything either John Mayer or Pete Wentz have ever produced that inspires me to instruct my very excited boyfriend to film me having three-way oral with a couple of my hot girlfriends. ANYWAY! John Mayer and Pete Wentz aren't getting up to any of that badassery, and appropriating anything from either's repertoire would make me a lot more likely to murder my friends and put them out of their misery rather than lick their twats.
I mean, do you need anything besides a brief glance at these two tards to be thoroughly convinced of their despicable natures? Pete Wentz is busy flipping his sleeveless hoodie and showing off the clear-framed Vuarnets that make him look like even more of an asshole hipster and John Mayer is busy straightening his man-pris and scrunching his hair. They probably spent the time talking about names for the impending Wentz-Simpson spawn and comparing what perfumes they favor. What a couple of straight-up fucktards.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, retard rage, small penises
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Just another day in the life of the goddamn boss
I have always had a somewhat suspicious view of thug rappers who brag about all the crimes they've committed and continue to commit in spite of being rich celebrities. I just don't believe that Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins is taking time out from recording club bangers with the likes of Usher and Christina Milian to cook crack in his microwave and sell it down at his local trap, any more than I believe that Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter and Brian "Birdman" Williams earned those teardrops tattooed on their faces by murdering a combined five people or I believe that Sean Kingston can show me about the slums of the city from which he got his surname without having his fat ass robbed of his ridonk Crayola crayon chain. Like the vast majority of people who listen to gangsta rappers and R&B thugs, I find all the macho posturing incredibly entertaining but not necessarily believable. It doesn't matter that Khaled "DJ Khaled" Khaled probably only has occasion to outrun DEA strike teams at 60 miles per hour in reverse in his Bentley for the sake of music videos rather than actual major league drug trafficking. I enjoy watching it and listening to it and it's fun.
However, the lack of veracity backing many of these dudes' claims to major case perpetrator status has not gone unnoticed, particularly by The Smoking Gun. A while back, they discovered that Aliuane "Akon" Thiam's claims of running a notorious interstate stolen car syndicate were inspired more by playing Grand Theft Auto than any actual personal experience. Now, they've followed up on a photo from MediaTakeOut concerning William "Rick Ross" Roberts's inflated criminal past.
In case you don't know who Rick Ross is, he's cornered the niche market of cocaine kingpin rap. His stage name was appropriated from a famous Los Angeles cocaine trafficker named Freeway Ricky Ross, and he routinely refers to himself as "the boss" and claims to run something called the "Carol City Cartel," as though he's some type of morbidly obese Floridian version of Pablo Escobar. This might seem kind of believable, since he always has a really menacing expression, he's always smoking a cigar, he pays a lot of lip service to staying trill (which means "keeping it real" with regard to thug exploits) and he looks like Suge Knight's long lost twin. I will, however, say that I think his intimidating air is somewhat mitigated by his absurd self-portrait yellow diamond pendant:
Anyway, I was a little suspicious of how Rick Ross managed to find the time to build an international drug trafficking operation when he was busy attending Albany State University on a football scholarship, so I wasn't terribly surprised when MediaTakeOut posted a picture featuring Rick Ross working at his first job after college...as an officer for the Florida Department of Corrections.
Yes, I'm sure that on his graduation day from prison guard school, the biggest boss that I've seen thus far was keeping it trill, indeed. To recapture some of that trillness, Rick Ross responded by claiming that these were Photoshopped, and that he's never worked keeping his colleagues in the drug-running industry confined in the clink. Unfortunately, The Smoking Gun decided to get in on the story, and they managed to dig up old personnel records for the same "William L. Roberts" in the photo above with the same social security number belonging to Rick Ross. I can see why he got out of the DoC business, since he was hardly able to blow 15 million in one week (one of his favorite hobbies according to his lyrics, although I would interject that it's not the most sensible financial planning strategy) making 23 grand a year as a corrections officer.
I can't hold it against Rick Ross too much for simply trying to stack that paper. And again, it's not like I really believed his criminal CV, since all you have to do to suspect him of not being quite the trilla he claims is watch one of his videos. For example, the video for "Speedin," which is one of my favorite Rick Ross jams because the hook is sung by a certain ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. I defy you to watch this video and think that Rick Ross is entirely truthful about his legendary exploits in the criminal underworld:
I'm not sure what is more absurd, the notion that Rick Ross could actually escape the police by leaping off a Miami bridge and swimming to freedom (while callously leaving DJ Khaled in the Maybach with their slut masseurs to bribe the police), "Kells and Ross on the Hollywood scene" after engaging in some kind of Fast and the Furious-esque street racing, or Ross asking Kells to "meet me at the helipad" in order to evade pursuit by some law enforcement types. Hell, it might be completely ridiculous, but it sure is fun.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
CRIBS: Senator John McCain (R-AZ)
While Barack Obama is busy feigning a profound sense of faith at the Wailing Wall, I'm glad to see that the officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain (R-AZ) is keeping things fun on his website. I went there because I read some article about how Obama gear is outselling McCain gear (Obama's designers are clearly more savvy, since he even sells sleepwear called "Ojamas") like crazy, and I wanted to do my part to even the score by picking up a slutty McCain tank top, a McCain beer cooler, or a camouflage "Sportsmen for McCain" hunting cap.
However, I was sidetracked from my shopping by an exhortation to take an "exclusive" tour of the Straight Talk Express. The STE is probably my favorite campaign gimmick of all time, and while I frequently tell people I'm firmly entrenched in my berth aboard the Straight Talk Express, I've always been curious to know what it looks like in reality. I always pictured it as a cross between Animal House and the White House "Situation Room," complete with a lot of fancy satellite feeds, a pool table, terrorist-tracking maps, a fridge stocked with Anheuser-Busch products courtesy of Cindy McCain, an inflatable donkey for stress relief when the democrats are especially irksome, some random military guys, and a dartboard with Barack Obama's face on it.
Well, it turns out the STE isn't quite that much fun, but I nonetheless appreciated the tour:
While the fridge has coffee fixings and Diet Coke rather than a full assortment of brew dogs and there were more random BlackBerries and microphones around than frathouse decor or blow-up asses, I still have to give the McCain campaign props for this tour. I don't know why I'm surprised that McCain knows about "Cribs" since he supposedly doesn't miss an episode of "The Hills" and is thus a devout MTV viewer. I love that he doesn't know how to use the internets, but he watches MTV! He's apparently so down with it that he even knows about the traditional epilogue where the subject of the "Cribs" at hand boots the cameras out of their domicile, as the "Director of Advances" (whatever that means) hosting the tour ushers the viewer off the Straight Talk Express with "No, seriously, go before I call the Secret Service." Fucking awesome.Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, John McCain, politics
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: teenager phones
DOB: 2008?
Occupation: texting like what
Hometown: probably some factory in China
Current residence: my hot little hands
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've been in bad emotional shape the last few days, but nothing cheers a bitch up like getting a new toy, whether it be a pair of shoes, a Sharper Image "body massager" (and I think you can guess which part of my body I use those to massage), or some fancy electronic gadget. In this case, it's the latter. My old phone was a beat-up piece of shit that actually got a huge crack in it, so it was time to make like Beyonce and upgrade that trash. Apart from it's general state of mechanical failure, my biggest problem with my old phone was its lack of a keyboard led to it taking FOREVER to send text messages. I generally hate talking on the phone, so unless I'm trying to catch up with my family or friends sufficiently far away to not see in person, I always prefer to text. Needless to say, my old phone was failing miserably at enabling me to do this efficiently.
Therefore, when I went to re-up, I totally purchased this phone with a slide-out keyboard of the class LL Cool Jew refers to as "teenager phones." This refers to the fact that all the kids these days seem to have one of these things that they can text the pedophiles they meet on MySpace easily with, and everywhere you go you see them texting and IMing furiously on these contraptions. LL Cool Jew has a teenager phone herself, and has been encouraging me to get one ever since she acquired her EnV or whatever, so she was delighted when I informed her that my LG Rumor arrived. Her specific response was actually "YYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY! QWERTY MCQWERTERSON!"
I know it's pretty lame to Daily Dude my new cell phone, especially since it's not an iPhone or a BlackBerry or something super fancy that does everything save wipe my ass and walk my dogs. However, if you've been using something for the last few years that, in terms of technical evolution, is barely removed from an empty can tied to a piece of string, you would be elated about your teenager phone too. So text me, bitches!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, nerd alert
Daily Douchebag: former Senator John Edwards
DOB: June 10, 1953
Occupation: world-class hypocrite
Hometown: Seneca, South Carolina
Current residence: Most recently, it was the Beverly Hilton fleeing from National Enquirer reporters
Douchebaggery: I always thought John Edwards was a putz. He comes across as a real salesman, which means I automatically don't trust him one bit. Edwards just cracks that "aw, shucks" Southern boy smile of his and presumes it's disarming enough to distract people from what he is actually saying, and whether it is the truth or a lie. I don't like liars, and I especially don't like liars who think they're so fucking charming they get a pass on being dishonest. I derive more than a little schadenfreude when they get their comeuppance for being so.
Monday night, the National Enquirer was tipped off that Edwards was visiting his mistress and love child at the Beverly Hilton. Granted, it hasn't been proven that this is Edwards's mistress and love child, and in fact one of his campaign staffers took the paternity bullet for him when the Enquirer first reported the story last year, but his behavior certainly seems to suggest that something in the milk ain't clean. According to the story, Edwards showed up at the Beverly Hilton, avoided the lobby, and took a side staircase to his supposed mistress's room. Then, at 2:40 in the morning, he snuck out an elevator into the basement, where to his dismay, he was confronted by several reporters. He ran to the lobby, then ran back to the basement after he spotted a photographer, and eventually locked himself in a men's room until hotel security could escort him off the premises. There could be many explanations for this behavior, but none of them equate to a man who is just making an innocent to a female friend and her new baby...surreptitiously...in the middle of the night...with a great fear of the press finding out. It sounds to me a lot more like he got caught fucking his side broad and visiting his bastard than making a friendly social call.
I don't particularly care who John Edwards is hitting on the side. I certainly can't speak from a position of moral authority, considering I have banged plenty of dudes who were in relationships with other people. I once witnessed one of my paramours calling his girlfriend–at home with their baby–to tell her he was working late (until 2 a.m.) from a seedy motel right before he fucked me cross-eyed. Another time, one of my special girlfriends had a brief phone discussion about paying household bills with her live-in fiancé and explaining that she was too drunk to drive home while I ate her pussy. Yet another time I ran into this guy at a breakfast joint in Tacoma and met his lovely girlfriend of five years, a few days after he gave me a pearl necklace (not the jewelry) and a hideous rug burn on my ass from the vigorous dicking he delivered on my living room floor. My personal position on these people (unless they are dating one of my friends, in which case I won't touch it) is that they are responsible for their own affairs and the cheating aspect of fucking me is their business. Adultery is as old as the institution of marriage itself, and is hardly some new horrible offense that shocks everyone. However, when a public political figure is constantly invoking the image of his loyal, cancer-ridden wife and brood of children as evidence of his upstanding character, I take issue with his hypocrisy.
Even if you are a politician and thus obliged to cater to the people who actually think politicians aren't all a bunch of corrupt, lying assholes, don't spend all your time touting your familial devotion if you are busy impregnating other bitches during your down time. I don't presume to tell people how to wipe their ass, since I already know mine is just as shitty as everyone else's. John Edwards should have just stuck to telling everyone how he has triumphed for the little people via his mastery of civil torts and cut the "family man who stands by his wife while she gets her tits cut off" schtick. At least he probably wasn't impregnating opposing counsel in secret, and thus could have escaped exposure as the duplicitous bullshitter he truly is.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, family matters, media whores, politics, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: SLEEP
I'm full of excuses this week. Before I get to my excuse du jour, however, I wanted to say thanks to all those of you who commented and e-mailed wishing me well. That sort of thing really helps, and I don't think I can adequately explain how much. It's a great relief to know that not only are you somehow managing to not eviscerate yourselves over the fact that I'm processing about my fragile state instead of being hilarious and witty and totally Razzified, you're actually pulling for me and sending encouragement my way. I'll have you know that thanks to said kindness, I'm getting about the business of taking care of myself. So thank you very much.
Now, on to today's excuse. Part of taking care of myself means not getting up at five a.m. to write for four hours before going to lab for the day and evening. This morning, I decided that I was going to allow myself the luxury of sleeping until 8:30 instead of waking at the ass crack of dawn to a not-healthy breakfast of Parliament Lights and Sugar-Free Red Bull. I feel a lot better for having done this. Sadly, that means depriving y'all of any quality material, but as it seems most of you are understanding, I have realized that this is okay and the world isn't going to end.
I guess what I'm trying to say is thanks for your patience, and once I get caught up on my sleep and my recharged my mental batteries, I'm going to be back in full effect. Y'all better ask somebody.
And in the meantime, check it out: tits!
Labels: excuses, nudity, Razzification
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: nobody except maybe my mom (but not seriously, because...EW, it's my MOM!)
2008 has been a rough year for me. Some of it I've discussed here at length, like my legal drama. Some of it I have just alluded to, like my financial drama (okay, that's not so much "drama" as "stress induced by abject poverty"), my lab drama (nothing works), my health drama (quitting smoking), my mental health drama (chronic depression and the shrinks who fail to treat it), and my boy drama (a so-called "friend" telling me he could never date me because I'm a slut and a freak). However, all of it has been weighing heavily on me, and last night I approached what can best be described as a near-total nervous breakdown. Specifically, I was considering dropping out of school and running back to the P-N-Dub with my tail between my legs, and I spent three hours on the phone with my mom sobbing about it.
I very rarely open up like that and let it all out, especially to my mother. She gets really worried about me, and it pains me to cause her so much distress. Last night, for example, she was fretting over whether my current ill mood was her fault because she and my dad ran so hard with the "child prodigy" thing. When I was four, my precocious nature inspired my parents to take me to a psychologist, who tested my IQ and pronounced me an official genius. My mom told me that he said, "Your daughter is going to make a big mark on the world. There aren't very many people like her." As a result, my parents started me in school early, got me into piano lessons, bought me a computer so that I could write better, signed me up for the gifted program, and reminded me all the time how special and different I am. I excelled academically, but my lack of maturity and social ineptitude made it very difficult for me to find friends early in life. I always felt different. On one hand, I felt like I was better than everyone else. On the other, I felt helpless to fit in and feel accepted, because my insufferable egotism didn't exactly win me a lot of friends. Last night, my mom said that she worried that the reason I take on so much now and don't take good care of myself is because she and my father encouraged me to be The World's Greatest from the moment I left that psychologist's office with my genius card. I told her that I can't be The World's Greatest because that lofty title is held by one Robert Sylvester Kelly. She didn't get the joke. The truth is, I'm so obsessed with being good at everything and presenting an impervious, indefatigable, totally dominant face to the world that I fail to remember one very important thing: deep inside, I'm an extremely fragile, extremely sensitive, extremely vulnerable human being with flaws and limits, and my failure to recognize and respect that leads to my complete and total mental and physical exhaustion.
Anyway, to make a long story short, my mother talked me out of dropping out of grad school unless that was really what I wanted. As much as I loathe grad school, that is not what I want to do, because I have no respect for quitters, and because I really do want to get my Ph.ake doctorate, so sorry, Columbia...you're stuck with my batshit crazy ass for another year (or less, God willing). I would probably never forgive myself for quitting, and there's already quite a lot that I don't forgive myself for. My mom told me that she can't imagine what it's like to be me, and have expectations for myself that few people burden themselves with with a simultaneous inability to relax those expectations at all.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, the conversation (and some recent kind comments encouraging me to take care of myself and move on from my past issues) brought to my attention that even Razzyphiles don't expect me to be full of useless bullshit all the time, and most of you will give me a break for not feeling like writing anything funny, or being exhausted, or generally showing some human weakness once in a while. Therefore, I wanted to explain why, in spite of waking up early as usual to surf the internets for something I could get excited about, I couldn't really think of anything I wanted to hit. Thanks to my mom's understanding and support, I feel a lot better about everything and I plan to get back in a more regular, cheerful frame of mind by stomping ass at pub trivia tonight with some of my peeps, but for now I feel too mentally beat to even get excited about the new line of 90210 nail polishes that are coming out (and duh, Kelly Taylor's color–along with mine–is TOTALLY cocksucker red). Thanks for your understanding and putting up with this super Smith girl post...I'm now about to go tap my reserves and get about the business of being back tomorrow in full motherfucking effect.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, excuses, for serious people, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: the New York Times
Name: the New York Times
DOB: September 18, 1851
Occupation: deciding which news is fit to print
Hometown: One Times Square, New York, New York
Current residence: 620 8th Ave, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: If you watch cable news at all, you probably saw that yesterday Matt Drudge stirred up all the pundits by publishing a story about how the Times rejected an op-ed essay by the officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain that responded to a piece by Senator Barack Obama entitled "My Plan for Iraq." David Shipley, editor of the Times Op-Ed page, apparently rejected it on grounds that he would rather have a piece that "mirrors" what Obama had to say.
While having edited an op-ed page myself (for the august Smith College Sophian), I understand that sometimes there is a process involving the author of an editorial piece in which the piece is changed a bit from its original form, I can't imagine how the Times expects McCain to write something "mirroring" Obama's plan. A fundamental difference between the two candidates–and the reason I am voting for John McCain–is their position on the Iraq War, and their plan on how to end it. McCain favors what I think is a more rational approach, a withdrawal based on conditions in Iraq as determined by our military leaders and the Iraqi government, versus the timetable Obama has revealed as his grand plan. While McCain states quite explicitly in his article that he expects troops to be out of Iraq by the end of his first term as president (rather than the "hundred years" Obamaphiles have been crowing about every time I tell ANYONE that I'm voting for John McCain), he plans to do this only after achieving a stabilized Iraq.
I don't like the Iraq War, and I did not support President Bush's decision to start it–thus sacrificing the lives of thousands of our brave troops and many more Iraqis–based on flawed intelligence and a poorly disguised desire for oil. However, we are up to our freedom-loving tits in it, and I think that as much as we'd all like to be like Obama and say, "much later, Iraq," we ought to finish what we started and stick it out until we establish some kind of lasting stability there. Or in the words of Senator McCain, "any draw-downs must be based on a realistic assessment of conditions on the ground, not on an artificial timetable created for domestic political reasons...I find it ironic that he (Obama) is emulating the worst mistake of the Bush Administration by waving the 'Mission Accomplished' banner prematurely."
Shipley stated that he would reconsider an editorial by McCain so long as it "would articulate, in concrete terms, how Senator McCain defines victory in Iraq." Considering McCain's piece already defined several goals concerning the Iraq military, reductions in sectarian violence, and his specific counterinsurgency strategy, as well as outlined what he considered benchmarks of failure in Iraq, Shipley's demand sounds a lot less like constructive editorial criticism and a lot more like they are more interested in presenting Obama's view than McCain's. This is hardly a surprise considering that the Times has been on Obama's jock since he leapt on the national stage at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, but it is disappointing. Whatever bias the Times may have, it's absurd and irresponsible for them to refuse to publish one major party candidate's views on a central issue of the upcoming presidential election until he comes up with a policy that "mirrors" their preference. I consider both Obama's and McCain's plans regarding the Iraq War to be "fit to print," and it shows a reprehensible disregard for fairness or equity to suggest that one's are more fit than the other's.
Granted, I always knew the Times was populated primarily by a bunch of insufferably arrogant snobs who generally think they know best, but I at least thought they had some fucking integrity. As it turns out, they aren't any better than FOX News when it comes to designing coverage that suits their particular bias. I've never been more glad to say that I prefer to read the trashy-ass Post.
Labels: Barack Obama, Daily Douchebag, John McCain, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, July 21, 2008
Trans-substantiation
A while back, my dumb (now ex-) shrink told me that I should consider the possibility that I'm transgendered, on the basis that I like football, drink scotch, and fuck girls every so often. When he said this, I about fell off his couch. I was already getting annoyed with him because he kept wanting to talk about lesbian stuff, which I stated clearly many times is not a shrink-worthy issue for me. I kept trying to direct our discussion back to my nicotine addiction and the chronic post-abortion depression I've been suffering the last five years, and he just wouldn't get off the topic of bisexuality. I suspect this is because he was GETTING OFF on my bisexuality, which I could have dealt with had he not played the "do you think you might be transgendered?" card.
Granted, I recognize that there are many very masculine aspects to my personality, and I have a lot of interests (sports, hunting, fishing, Hemingway, action movies, porn, tits, the NFL, world domination, etc.) that have traditionally been the province of men. However, just because I like a lot of boy stuff doesn't mean that I actually want to BE a boy. In this day and age of modern feminism, I would think that just because a chick does some things that aren't traditionally feminine doesn't automatically mean that she is having some sort of gender identity crisis. I've certainly thought from time to time that it might be easier to be a man and get away with my behavior, and it would be fun to have a weiner, but when it comes right down to it, I'm totally comfortable with my female body. I would hardly be showing off my naked tits whenever possible if I wished I'd been born without them or was planning to chop them off. I can't recall a single occasion in which "I wish I were a boy" or "I'm trapped in the wrong body" thoughts ever crossed my mind, and I certainly have no desire to make the switch and make everyone start calling me "Ethan" or "Bobby" or "Colin," much less get a double mastectomy, take testosterone, and have my vagina turned inside out into a pathetically small penis. I have no problem with people who do, but I think that gender identity is something much deeper than what kind of liquor you drink or whether or not you like sports. I know plenty of dudes who don't like sports, drink fruity cocktails, and spend more money on skin care products than I do, and they're usually called "metrosexuals" rather than M2F trannies. I am perfectly content with my XX karyotype and the body that goes with it, so fuck you if you think that my aggressive personality means I am not.
Anyway, I had dinner Friday with my friend Miss Corbutt, and we were laughing about this.
"You know, Razzy, I have a bunch of pictures of you turning household objects into phallic symbols from back when we lived in Tacoma that might support the transgendered theory," she said. "I'm going to scan them and send them to you."
And so she did. While I'm not certain these substantiate the rumor that I'm secretly yearning to be a boy, they certainly prove that I have a huge case of penis envy. Take, for example, this photo of me working a hose from a summer getaway I took with a posse of Smith lesbians. I'm literally making it rain on myself:
And here's one that's even more incriminating, of me working in my garden and getting my she-male on. I suppose one could consider gardening to be a feminine hobby, but in spite of that I manned it up by locating a surrogate weiner while digging invading roots out of my roses:
It's a good thing my ex-shrink doesn't read this blog, because if he did, he'd probably feel really fucking validated.
Labels: gender bending, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, weiners
We'll put a boot in China's ass, it's the American way
I'm getting pretty stoked for the Olympics, and I just read an article from Sunday's Telegraph that reminded me why. Entitled "Battle for gold offers China first chance to 'defeat' America," the piece describes how China is gearing up to kick our freedom-loving asses this August in Beijing:
China's emerging rivalry with America as a global superpower will move into the sporting arena next month as its Olympic athletes strive to oust their US counterparts from the top of the medals table for the first time.Oh, it's ON, bitches! I loved growing up during Cold War Olympics because it was so fun to root against the Russians. Even though I was nine when the Summer Olympics were held in Seoul in 1988 and I was more concerned with my lesbian scientist Barbies and riding my bike than studying the nuances of our drama with the U.S.S.R., I knew that as an American I had to feel one way: LET'S KICK SOME COMMIE ASS!
In a showdown reminiscent of the Cold War-era battles for Olympian dominance, China has put unprecedented effort into ensuring that Beijing 2008 will be a sporting triumph as well as a logistical one.
With their athletes already dominant in events such as gymnastics, table tennis and martial arts, Chinese sporting chiefs have spent the past few years focusing on disciplines where Americans have traditionally excelled, including swimming, basketball and athletics.
China's attempt to end America's run of supremacy at the last three Games will add an East-West frisson not seen since the demise of the Soviet Union, which topped the medals board eight times in the post-war period. While the rest of the world's eyes will be on the heroics of the individual contestants, Chinese officials will pay closest attention to the total medal tally. Some expect America to take an early lead with the many swimming events in the first few days – but be squeezed by China as other disciplines kick in.
Darryl Seibel, a spokesman for the US Olympic Committee, said: "We expect this to be one of the most competitive Olympics in recent history. That is down to a combination of China's investment in its Olympic programme, Russia's decision to do the same and the policy of some nations like Britain, which are targeting specific medals in sports that are important to them. China has to be considered the favourite. Every host nation receives a huge boost."
It didn't matter to me then that all I knew about the Soviet Union was that they had bread lines, thought police, lots of tanks, weird-looking churches, something evil called the KGB, MIG fighter jets that guys from Top Gun shoot down, and a cold-ass part of the country called Siberia. Oh, and they displayed Lenin's body like the damn Declaration of Independence (gross), weren't free, and hated America. All of that sounded pretty bad to me, so I was glad to ignore that pussified Sting "I bet the Russians love their children too" garbage and root against those pinko cocksuckers in any and all Olympic sporting contests. Besides, channeling major philosophical, political, and historical disagreements into an international sports contest is a hell of a lot more fun and constructive than nuclear war.
Since the Soviet Union's collapse, we haven't had any really good national rivals to hate on during the games of the whatever Olympiad, and that's disappointing to me. It's just no fun to hate on the Russians since we stopped fearing that they might annihilate us with 400 kiloton Sloika warheads at any moment. As far as our enemies abroad are concerned, I can't get too excited about hating on Iran or North Korea's Olympic team, because I have yet to see any of their athletes at the Olympics. In fact, Wikipedia tells me that Iran last mounted the podium with Olympic gold at the Melbourne summer games in 1956. Sadly for all of us freedom-loving patriots looking for an enemy, Al Qaeda doesn't have an Olympic team. Even if they were a sovereign nation and thus permitted to compete, I would wager that they wouldn't be much of a threat anyway, since making crazy videos of anti-western rhetori-babble for Al-Jazeera, airline hijacking, and illegal arms trading aren't Olympic events.
Therefore, I'm glad China has stepped in to fill the void of vicious international rival. Finally I've found something that I can see eye to eye with the annoyingly disruptive, hypocritical, patently stupid Free Tibet protestors on: hating on China hard. It's too bad all those losers are boycotting the Olympics, because I would think that watching Michael Phelps smote some Chinese ruin on the side of the swimming pool would be a truly satisfying way of dealing out some karmic reward for their shoddy human rights record. This year, China may have been focusing on traditionally American-dominated sports, but we are not only going to kick their ass at swimming, we're going to kick their ass at traditional Chinese-dominated sports like women's gymnastics too! Sure, America may be up to its tits in Chinese loans to cover the Iraq War, but that will make it even more satisfying when Shawn Johnson and Nastia Liukin open a can of gymnastic supremacy all over the People's Republic. I'm glad we finally have some real rivals to hate for once at the Olympics, because it will make it that much more sweet when we stomp their asses with nationalistic pride not seen since Gorbachev was running shit at the Kremlin.
And if China wants to know what happens when a Communist superpower tries to get the better of the U.S. of A, I would advise them to watch a little movie called RED DAWN:
That's right, China...WOLVERINES! USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
That's right, China...WOLVERINES! USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: I LOVE IT, international intrigue, Olympics, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nate Dogg
DOB: August 19, 1969
Occupation: down (but not out) hook singer
Hometown: Long Beach, California
Current residence: Pomona, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I spent all weekend sharing the extremely distressing news about Nate Dogg's criminal problems and recent stroke with my friends, who were just as upset to discover this as I was. Since I'm the closest thing to a doctor in our little circle, I had to field a lot of questions about his medical condition. Not surprisingly, the most pressing concern I addressed related to whether or not smoking weed every day as Nate Dogg admittedly does can predispose a gangsta for a cerebrovascular accident at such a young age. Unfortunately, I haven't been keeping up on the literature concerning the likelihood that weed by the barrel in one's G'd up apparel increases one's risk for a premature stroke. In fact, I don't even have to check out PubMed to know that such studies haven't even been done, much less published in a peer-reviewed journal.
On Saturday, I got up at the crack of dawn to hit the LIRR for a beach day with my girls Rack and FalloniusMonk. On the way, when I informed them of the latest in Nate Dogg news, they got over their initial shock and horror and advised me that Rack probably gets the prize for Nate Dogg-philia among our friends. Rack actually owns Nate Dogg's solo CD, which is a whole other level of adoration. I didn't even know Nate Dogg had a solo CD. In fact, back in college, one of my drug deal–I mean, BUSINESS associates, the Byrdman, was listening to my Chronic 2001 CD with me and I wondered why Nate Dogg didn't have a more productive solo career. "Think about it, Razzy," he said. "You really want to hear a whole album of 'smoke weed every day'?"
I thought about it, and realized that Nate Dogg is probably best when his talents are used judiciously in conjunction with some talented West Coast rapper. However, Rack came to a different conclusion, and thus FalloniusMonk purchased her a copy of Nate Dogg's 2001 solo effort Music and Me. Rack loves this CD so much that she still maintains the entire thing on her iPod. When our drunk asses were trying to stay awake after a long day swimming and swilling gin and tequila in 95-degree sunshine all day on the train ride back to Penn Station, she passed me an earphone and cranked the Nate D-O-double G. I was immediately snapped out of my alcoholic stupor and was soon singing loudly "your wife, my bitch, your love, my trick, her mouth, my dick, I fucked, that's it" to the frowning disapproval of the fat Greek woman next to me. Since her ample, cellulite-dimpled ass was spilling out of her stretch capris into my seat and thus offending me horribly, I figured my verbalizing profane Nate Dogg lyrics made us even in the affront department.
If only this had been available when I was in college; it would have been alongside "Ain't No Fun (If the Homies Can't Have None)" and "The Chronic Outro" (AKA "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks") in my treasured collection of feminist-angering anthems to blast out my window for disrupting the frequent vagina-centric candlelight vigils occurring in the Smith College Quad. Man, I miss those days. There's nothing more satisfying than bumping some West Coast flava while simultaneously interrupting some dumb self-righteous, overprivileged twats at a $30K per annum liberal arts college while they're trying to whine at/lecture me about the women in Afghanistan or female genital mutilation or whatever other cause du jour.
Anyho, I stand corrected on Nate Dogg's skills as a solo artist, and Rack has promised to burn a copy of Music and Me for my auditory pleasure. I again salute Nate Dogg, and wish him a speedy resolution to both his legal and neurological woes. I can't do much to help him legally or medically (although I'm pleased that he has a sweet Cobra head pimp cane to assist him with ambulation until he's fully rehabilitated), but I can try to offer my moral support by spreading his gospel. Enjoy "Your Wife":
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hot dudes, Rack, rap
Daily Douchebag: the Svedka vodka robot
DOB: 2007
Occupation: turning me off the idea of ever ordering Svedka vodka
Hometown: Sweden?
Current residence: the internets
Douchebaggery: I see these ads for Svedka vodka all over the internets. I can't recall a single occasion in which I or anyone I've witnessed ever ordered Svedka vodka, but Svedka is trying to change that with totally ubiquitous online ads. All my trusty gossip websites, my social slutworking websites, even some of my news websites have ads pimping Svedka. Too bad Svedka's marketing strategy ensures that I'd rather choke on syphilitic dick than allow a stray drop of a Svedka martini cross my lips.
Svedka's ads rely on sex appeal, which normally does the job for me. I'll buy almost any product if it makes me think of getting laid. However, Svedka's "sex appeal" is embodied by this futuristic sex droid reminiscent of the offspring of a blow-up doll and the robots from the CGI shitshow known as I, Robot. There is something inherently really creepy about what looks like some sort of Kim Kardashian Terminator with all its flesh stripped off. From a strictly pragmatic perspective, I also think this sexbot looks pretty useless. How are you supposed to have sex with that thing? From what I can see, it doesn't come equipped with a vagina module. What good is a voluptuous robot with DD tits if you can't use it for your perverse gratification? From what I can tell, the best this thing can do is maybe give some oral, but I question even that since her mouth plug-in always seems busy drinking some kind of Svedka cocktail. I have no use whatsoever for an unsettling sexless sex machine that's going to sit around drinking all my swill.
I suppose Svedka could be less appealing by using webcam pedophile penis shots from the "To Catch a Predator" archives or footage of Star Jones's post-gastric bypass FUPA to sell their firewater, but that's pretty much all I can think of that would turn me off more than their skeezy fem-bot. Robo-tease is not hot, and she doesn't make me either horny or thirsty for a Svedka gimlet. FAIL, Svedka marketing department!
If Svedka truly aspires to be the world's best vodka in 2033, I strongly suggest they stop turning off their potential alcoholic customers with this disturbing spokesdroid. Besides, if they insist on using robots to somehow suggest that Svedka is the vodka of the future, I can think of two WAY sexier models they could employ:
However, until Svedka signs RoboCop and/or the ED-209 as celebrity vodka endorsers, I am sticking with Stoli.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, I'm Not Buying It, retard rage, RoboCop, scathing indictments
Friday, July 18, 2008
In today's horrible news...
What the hell happened to Nathaniel "Nate Dogg" Hale? I haven't been keeping up with Nate Dogg-related news lately and I just assumed he was up to his usual hijinx: hitting the east side of the LBC on a mission trying to find Mr. Warren G, telling women that if they can't fuck that day to just lay back and open their mouths, having hoes in area codes, smoking weed every day, and the like. I was shocked out of this complacent attitude about Nate Dogg's current activities when I saw some startling news on the gossip internets.
Yesterday the master of West Coast hook-singing showed up in a Compton courthouse to be arraigned on felony charges of stalking! Apparently, his estranged wife accused him of sending some threatening e-mails and following her on a freeway. Obviously, this must have been a misunderstanding, because I can only imagine he was just trying to coax her to the East Side Motel or something far less sinister than actually doing any kind of felony stalking. Nate Dogg hired Mark Geragos and pled not fucking guilty, posted his $100,000 bond, and is ready to clear his venerated name.
I am also suspicious of these charges, because Nate Dogg isn't all that threatening these days. He showed up to court looking feeble and rolling in a wheelchair, and a quick search of the internets informed me that this is due to the STROKE he had last Christmas!
How did I not know that Nate Dogg was rocking it until the wheels fall off in a damn WHEELCHAIR? This is an inexcusable oversight on my part. No wonder he hasn't been singing any catchy hooks lately. He's been in occupational therapy. This also makes me wonder about the plausibility of him making any credible threats against his wife. I mean, what the hell is Nate Dogg going to do, drool at her? I can't imagine that being tailed by an emaciated, partially paralyzed hook singer in a Lark scooter could have been all that frightening. I'm confident that Nate Dogg will prove his innocence and get back to recovering from his cerebrovascular accident.
And to prevent any further ignorance on my part, I'm setting a Google alert for "Nate Dogg" as of now-thirty.
Labels: crime and punishment, hot dudes, tragedy
Richie Sexson goes where all former Mariners go
As a Seattle sports fan, I'm accustomed to our teams sucking. The Seahawks spent virtually all of my childhood stinking up the Kingdome. The Sonics are taking a legacy of loss to Oklahoma City, although on the bright side they are the sole Seattle team to have won a league championship...when I was an infant in 1979. Despite the fact that at the time most of my attention was devoted to breastfeeding and shitting in my diapers, I know all about the Sonics historic championship season because my mother was considering naming me "Freddie Brown" due to my propensity for jumping around her uterus during the 1978 season in which I was gestating and the Sonics lost the championship to the Washington Bullets. And the Mariners have had one year after another in which they either suck righteously or win enough to get everybody all excited, only to get unceremoniously knocked out of the postseason, usually by the goddamned sonofabitchbastard New York Yankees. Seattle should consider adding "soul-crushing sports teams" to its roster of famous exports like Windows software, Weyerhauser timber, and Starbucks coffee.
This year, the Mariners take the prize for the P-N-Dub's most disgraceful team. The Seahawks had a great draft and I have high hopes that they'll continue to beat the piss out of the rest of the shitshow known as the NFC West this fall. The Sonics are gone. That leaves the Mariners, who are without question the worst team in baseball, which I attribute to karmic reward for their hating on hot lesbian makeout sessions at Safeco Field. They can't hit, can't pitch, and can't win games under any circumstances. Somebody needs to make a cardboard cutout of the team owner and take off a piece of clothing every time they win a game or SOMETHING to motivate them. Well, actually, I doubt that any of the Mariners staff wants to see the CEO of Nintendo naked, but that worked in Major League and at this point anything is worth a try because they suck harder than me after ten scotches in a bar bathroom with a willing honey.
Since the M's don't have a diabolical yet potentially hot naked owner who actually wants them to lose and they don't have Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Jake Taylor, Pedro Cerrano, Roger Dorn, or Willie Mays Hayes on their roster, they are trying a different strategy to save their team: trimming the fucking fat. That means getting rid of the overpaid and grossly underperforming marquis players we signed with great fanfare just two short seasons ago, specifically Richie Sexson.
I'm a little disappointed by this because Richie Sexson is 6'8" tall, I get the feeling he's hung like a brontosaurus, and he looks like the type who could fuck my freckles off. Seriously, check out his pants in the above photo...even when dejected due to yet another strikeout, it literally looks like he has a tail tucked between his legs. However, if I think with my head rather than my vagina, he shouldn't let the door hit his bitch ass on the way out. The Mariners signed Sexson to a contract worth $50 million and he's played like he's making the league minimum. The past two years, he's been batting squarely around .200 with like negative fifteen RBIs and a paltry handful of home runs. I can hardly blame the M's management for trying to cut their losses. However, what annoys the hell out of me is the fact that Richie Sexson is going where Gay Rod, Randy Johnson, John Olerud, Tino Martinez, and all departing Mariners always end up: THE FUCKING NEW YORK YANKEES!
Sexson deserves to go play for Satan's own baseball team given his piss-poor performance. However, I hate the fact that the Mariners are practically a farm team for the fucking Yankees. Why do all of our players, no matter how good or bad, depart and (excepting Alex Rodriguez's brief layover in Texas) go straight to the goddamned Bronx? I can only hope that Sexson's slump gets even worse as he dons the pinstripes of the damned and he causes them to plummet to the dregs of the AL East. Or, barring that, Sexson just contributes to the perennial dearth of offense come playoff time the Yankees have experienced the past few postseasons. That's the silver lining I was looking for.
Labels: fuck the Yankees, Mariners, P-N-Dub, ranting, scathing indictments, sportsmen
How NOT to throw a virology conference
I just got back from the absolutely thrilling annual delight known as the American Society for Virology Conference. The last time I attended ASV two years past, it was in Madison, Wisconsin and was quite fun. They have a large conference hall in close proximity to both our hotel and the many bars where all the UW-Madison college kids get their drank on. I was expecting something similar this year, except minus the agonizing Northwest Airlines flight home that J-Sexy and I endured with one hour of sleep and a crushing hangover. Too bad I was very, VERY wrong. The only thing this year's ASV had in comparison to Madison was the central theme of virology; every thing else could be considered a cautionary tale about how NOT to throw a major scientific conference. I have conveniently itemized the lessons for your edification, because I know you're all contemplating getting into the virology conference organizing business, and you might want to know what NOT to do.
Everything is a million fucking miles apart. When I arrived, I received a folder saying "Cornell: More than a great resource–a SPECTACULAR setting for academic and professional events." This folder included a pamphlet noting that Cornell is a "a full-service 745 acre conference center in the heart of the beautiful Finger Lakes." What these pamphlets gloss over is that Cornell is atop a gigantic fucking hill, which means that you are always huffing and puffing up some steep-ass grade to get wherever you are going. Furthermore, the "745 acres" mentioned in the pro-Cornell material also ensure that everything is spaced at least a half-mile apart, so if I want to catch a talk about poliovirus replication and immediately after go to some talk about innate immunity in a different session, I have to hope that there is some talk I don't care about in between because transferring sessions means a 15 minute run uphill. Of course, despite the fact that there are large college lecture halls everywhere, the organizers planned all the sessions in the most disparate locations possible.
2. Ensure that the shuttle service runs as infrequently and unpredictably as possible
Given that Cornell is huge, you would think that ASV would compensate by arranging a regular shuttle service to ferry us around from nerdy talk to talk, or back down to the main part of Ithaca where all the hotels are. Instead, they chartered three decrepit old school buses with no air conditioning and semi-retarded drivers who actually asked US for directions. They also instructed said shuttles to run sporadically early in the morning and late at night, so if there was no shuttle, you had to call your hotel or take a city bus. Luckily most of the hotels (including ours) ran free shuttles, but sometimes these were in high demand and you had to either walk or catch Ithaca public transport. I live in New York City and take public transport all the time, so this would normally be no problem...except for the fact that my trusty ASV bag didn't come equipped with a bus map or schedule. It's hard to take the city bus when you don't know where to catch it, you don't know where it goes, and it doesn't run on Sundays.
3. Require use of precious drink tickets for non-alcoholic drinks
When I picked up my hot-ass "ASV 2008" bag and my $200 travel grant, I immediately dove in to find the drink tickets. When I saw there were seven of them, I thought, "BOO YAH!" This momentary elation turned quickly to horror, however, when I realized that you had to use these for water as well as beer. This was a slap in the face to those of us who rely on the generosity of the sober nerds for extra swill, because it guaranteed that those (lame) scientists who don't drink weren't willing to give up their drink tickets to their boozy colleagues as they normally would. Last time at ASV, my drunken crew managed to acquire at least fifteen extra drink tickets from kindhearted teetotalers willing to put their spare booze to good use. This time, all those drink tickets were wasted on Cornell Big Red water and apple juice by the temperance-minded set and by day 3, I was actually paying for alcohol.
4. TOO MUCH VIROLOGY
I know this is a virology conference and I shouldn't complain about hours upon hours of virology talks, but even for professionals in the field, FOURTEEN HOURS A DAY IS TOO MUCH. The conference organizers were not selective about who got to present a talk, and let everyone who wanted give one. That meant that talks went on until ten p.m., and half of them were unfinished crap that had no business wasting my twelve minutes. For every interesting talk in which I heard about "abortion storms" (gross) caused in livestock by Rift Valley fever virus, I got to hear two talks where some dumb skank elaborated on optimizing buffer conditions for some assay they just got working and thus don't have any real data from whatsoever. Thank God Cornell was at least equipped with wireless everywhere and I could spend these talks surfing the internet or simply spacing out.
5. Bad food
It's not like I expect Daniel Boulud to cater this thing, but in Madison they at least had respectable lunch and dinner pasta or taco bars at an indoor facility capable of accomodating chafing dishes. At Cornell, we were lucky to get anything besides a nasty boxed lunch, because in spite of all the empty cafeterias around, our meals were served in a fucking tent on a hill so steep we had to keep an eye on our drinks to ensure they didn't succumb to gravity and slide down the table. The first day, they served something called the "Pacific Noodle Bowl," which consisted of a bunch of horrifically overcooked noodles, shredded carrots, and about five cups of peanut oil. I didn't eat most of mine, but J-Sexy did and paid the price. She said that when she ran to the bathroom, it was full of ladies suffering similar digestive ailments. You know there's a problem when you feed a roomful of virologists something that gives everyone acute gastroenteritis. We all expected to hear a lot about noroviruses and rotaviruses, but I don't think anyone actually expected to learn about them through firsthand experience.
6. No free drinks at the banquet
We all paid $50 extra to attend the banquet "gala" on the last night of ASV. In Wisconsin, we got gift bags of free crap (ASV placemats adorned with structural representations of various virus capsids, ASV water bottles, ASV stress balls, ASV coffee mugs, ASV pencils, etc.). We also got several bottles of wine for our table. At Cornell, we got naught but some marginally edible chicken tikka masala and even had to use our (at that point, non-existent) drink tickets for hooch, as the only liquid they provided was a complimentary bottle of Cornell Big Red water at every seat. Well, we also got a live band that played the disco hits of yesteryear and a DJ who didn't kick me out when I snuck up to his computer and turned on "Nuthin' But a G Thang," the only rap on. He was even going to let me hook up my computer and play some Lil' Wayne until it occurred to him that a song about Weezy being so sweet it makes his woman wanna lick the rapper might offend some people. On the bright side, the band allowed me to singlehandedly change the tone of the banquet for the better by welcoming them back from a break with an acapella rendition of "The PCR Song." You haven't lived until you've taken the stage to drive a tentful of scientists into hysterical cheers by singing "Denaturing, annealing, and extending...well it's amazing what heating and cooling and heating will do." After that, I was high-fived by about fifty people and everyone hit the dance floor ready to party. Thank God for me watching geeky science YouTube ads for Bio-Red thermal cyclers enough times to memorize all the words, because this was the best part of the conference next to the scintillating conversation about strap-ons I had with one of my hot bisexual geek friends from Brown.
There you have it. Next time any of you consider running something like ASV, please heed my warnings and do it up right.
Labels: epidemic geekery, nerd alert, scathing indictments, science, viruses rule
Daily Douchebag: Bravo
DOB: December 1, 1980
Occupation: keeping me uninformed of important developments in TV
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: channel 18 on NYC Time Warner Cable
Douchebaggery: I just realized that a new season of "Project Runway" started this week! How did this happen without my noticing it? Oh wait...I know. Bravo has had a bunch of craptastic shows they've been advertising all over the subways ("Date My Ex," "Shear Genius," etc.), but NOTHING about PROJECT FUCKING RUNWAY?!?! Isn't "Project Runway" their biggest show? How can they not spend their entire marketing budget reminding me that Michael Kors is returning to tell designers that their model looks like she's wrapped in a black velvet condom or it looks like a Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass? How can they not inform me that Nina Garcia will act like a designer is a Nazi war criminal because they dressed a model in a cowl-neck sweater? How can they forget to give me a heads up that Tim Gunn will use words like "zaftig" and "ebullient" that the vocabulary-challenged contestants blink at in confusion? How can they neglect to tell me that Heidi Klum will be gearing up to deliver her trademark "eder yau're in or yau're aut" line?
Possibly part of the problem is that after this season, "Project Runway" is saying "auf wiedersehn" to Bravo and moving to the Lifetime network, and Bravo is bitter. I understand they probably want to pimp their new programming so people will want to watch Bravo once "Project Runway" departs, and they can't show "Top Chef" all year long. Still, I would think Bravo would want to milk their biggest cash cow one last time and would at least put up a stray ad advising me that a new season of "Project Runway" is back to bust a nut all over channel 18 one last time. No wonder Lifetime swooped in and stole "Project Runway;" Bravo gets a big fat FAIL for handling their business. At least they'll have eight zillion reruns of the premiere episode I missed so I can watch my man Michael Kors open a can of super bitchiness all over the would-be designers who don't make "really great shorts."
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Project Runway, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Minnesota Vikings
DOB: September 27, 1960
Occupation: evil scheming against the Green Bay Packers
Hometown: Minneapolis, Minnesota
Current residence: Minneapolis, Minnesota
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was getting really sick of hearing about text messages Brett Favre was sending the Packers' general manager and his "itch" to play and his whining that he was pressured to retire. I'm sick of Brett Favre and I think he should spend his remaining years driving around on his John Deere in Mississippi and not bothering anybody rather than throwing interceptions and sending John Madden into paroxysms of sanguine man love. I really don't want to hear him bitching about how mean the Packers are for not releasing him and not guaranteeing him a starting position. However, I perked up when I read that Brett Favre may have illegally been chit-chatting about a possible contract with the Minnesota Vikings and the Packers are now PISSED.
Brett Favre is still technically on the Packers' roster, which means that he's not allowed to covertly talk about playing for the Vikes (or any other NFL team, for that matter) with members of their coaching staff. The Packers apparently believe that this was a clever ploy by the Vikings to cause chaos and drama among the Cheeseheads while they are trying to build a Favre-free offense around the unremarkable Aaron Rodgers, and they're grievance-filing mad about it. The NFL has launched an investigation into the tampering charges brought by the Packers. The Vikings aren't commenting, except to say that Tarvaris Jackson is still their starting quarterback and coach Brad Childress thinks the whole thing is a "soap opera."
If the Packers' charges are true, though, then I give the Vikings mad props for coming up with a scheme worthy of an Aaron Spelling drama to fuck with their NFC divisional rivals. Who knew that Brad Childress was an evil plotter as well as a freakish Major Dad doppelganger? I actually thought he was kind of dumb, since half the Vikings roster hates on him to the media whenever possible and he seems determined to underuse Adrian Peterson. I guess his failures to earn the respect of his players and consistently make successful offensive play calls are symptomatic of his devoting most of his time to execute sneaky cabals exploiting the Packers' Favre-related vulnerabilities. He should just move to Melrose Place and change his name to Amanda Woodward already. I have newfound respect for the Minnesota Vikings for their backroom Brett Favre-mediated trickery. Go Vikes!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, NFL football, sportsmen
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Workin for the Man: Today's Headlines in Business
Across the Big Apple, boredom reaches record-breaking levels. As the summer heat increases and fears for the economy compound, American business finds itself spiraling with even higher numbers of useless conference calls, canceled projects, strained communications and overall ennui.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, intentional buffoonery, Smeeberish
Friday, July 11, 2008
Daily Excuse
So today I have a whole shitload of legal and science stuff to attend to and I'm sorry to say that I don't have much time for blogging. Getting sued is certainly a pain in the ass, but it's not nearly as annoying as having to put together a poster for the conference I'm going to tomorrow in upstate New York. Oh, and did I mention I'm going to a conference tomorrow in upstate New York? I'm going to be in Ithaca for a few days listening to ten scintillating hours of virology research each day, so I'm not going to have much time for blogging.
I know I suck because it seems like every week I'm all, "Taking a few days off, try not to kill yourselves." Believe me, if I had my way, I'd be spending my mornings getting my useless bullshit on and my afternoons (un)happily entrenched in lab. Unfortunately, I have to go scope out what's new in my field and get drunk with my colleagues at other institutions, and amazingly, that pays better than the useless bullshit distribution business.
Anyway, I'll be back and better than ever awesome as usual next week sometime. Thanks for your patience with my absence, technical issues, and all my other faults. I promise to make it up.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: excuses
Thursday, July 10, 2008
FTP: Fucking technical problems
Not that you'll be able to read this anytime soon, but there's apparently some drama with Blogger and FTP publishing going on. I don't really understand all the ins and outs about "external servers" and "ports" and that type of incomprehensible tech shit, but the moral of the story is that it takes FOR-FUCKING-EVER to upload anything. I checked Blogger help, and apparently they are the ones with the problem, which I gathered after emailing my broke-ass hosting company and receiving a typically condescending reply about some free FTP client they think I should use). Since my problem seems to be specifically with Blogger's FTP client (and why it's called a "client" as opposed to my preferred term "thingy" I have no idea), I guess I have to wait for their lazy asses to fix it. Since all the people at Google are so busy shooting pool and playing video games and otherwise engaging in lots of non-work recreational activities, I have no fucking clue when this problem will be solved. Blogger's help page told me to clear my browser cache, which is one of the few computer-type things I know how to do, but that did a whole lot of jack shit nothing.
So please bear with me during this time of stalled file transfers. I am still writing useless bullshit as prolifically as ever...I'm just having a hard time blessing you all with it due to circumstances outside of my control. Thanks for your patience, all you hot Razzyphile pieces of trash.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: computer incompetence, excuses, internet domination
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: David Silver
DOB: early 1975
Occupation: DJ, master freestyler, backup keyboardist for Babyface, inept nightclub owner, condom and deodorant jingle composer, recovering meth addict, hot nerdy Jew, hot piece!
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: my DVD shelf, Monday through Friday on SoapNet at 5-7 pm
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm generally taking this whole lawsuit business with a grain of salt and trying to have a sense of humor about it. However, it's kind of difficult not be preoccupied by it. This is the first time I've ever been sued, and it's like the first time I did my own taxes. Being on one side or another of a civil tort is a normal part of American life, but initially it can seem overwhelming and monumental. I don't want to bore you all with a bunch of "Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my attorney"-type posts, though, so I thought I would talk about something more fun...namely, the greatest show in the history of television: "BEVERLY HILLS, 90210"!
I noticed the other day that Megan Fox (that Angelina Jolie-wannabe chick from Transformers) dumped Brian Austin Green, prompting a lot of people to say things like "how did David Silver score such a hot piece?" My question is more along the lines of "how could Megan Fox pass on David Silver?" David Silver is H.O.T. For one thing, I heard a rumor that he's hung like a fucking woolly mammoth. For another, he executed some of the most riveting scenes in all of television as he transitioned from socially leprous nerd to straight-up player-ass pimp over the course of Bev Niner's ten seasons. Off the top of my head, I can think of ten bitches David Silver boned: Babyface's manager Ariel, Nikki the hippie music lover, that Chloe chick whose demo tape he produced, the inimitable Valerie Malone, Donna Martin (finally), nefarious ex-ice skater Gina Kincaid, closet lesbian Camille, crazy aspiring fame whore Sophie (formerly Sydney Andrews Mancini from "Melrose Place"), that South American chick who worked as a janitor at the Peach Pit After Dark (Claudia?), and that seventeen-year-old who seduced David and then almost busted him for statutory rape. David Silver was landing more tuna than fucking Star-Kist.
David Silver also had some of the best storylines on Bev Niner. First he became so cool that they had to kill of his nerdy friend Scott Scanlon, so as not to cockblock David's meteoric rise through the West Beverly High social scene. During his high school reign, he not only managed to overcome racial issues by rapping at the West Beverly-Shaw homecoming dance, he also rocked the halls via his amazing broadcasts on WBVH high school radio. He rode the wave of his musical notoriety all the way to getting crabs from Babyface's slutty manager Ariel in the back of a limo. Then he got into meth in college, leading to one of the most hilarious dramatic drug disposal/busts in the history of television, in which Dylan helps David instantly kick meth and then pour like 5 keys of it (along with approximately 10 pounds of random pills) down the beach apartment toilet right before a DEA team in full SWAT regalia busted in. He also proved a quick study in handling criminal crises, as he saved Donna from rapist Garrett Slant when he knew something was wrong because she called him "Dave." Later in college, he tried his hand at talent management, until he got too offended by the racist band he was managing telling him "you people sure know how to squeeze money out of a wallet...AH-JEW!" When this didn't work out, he gave nightclub management a shot, at least until he ran the Peach Pit After Dark into the ground and had to steal Donna's money to pay the rent. After living off the royalties from the one hit song he wrote for the shiteous emo rock band Jasper's Law and his condom and deodorant jingles, he secured a permanent position returning to his roots as a radio DJ. Unfortunately, he ended the series on a sour note when he married Donna in the most obnoxious, boring wedding in prime-time soap opera history, but overall, David Silver was a totally hot piece of ass and you wouldn't have to ask me twice to hit that. Besides, he's the offspring of one of the hottest supporting characters in all of television, Dr. Mel Silver, DDS, and it makes sense that David sprung from loins that spent 99% of their time banging 19-year-old dental hygienists and occasionally Jackie Taylor.
If you're rolling your eyes and thinking, "ENOUGH with the Bev Niner...David Silver is a suck-ass nerd who wore way too many Cross Colours shirts in 1993," then let me persuade you of his awesomeness with one of his shining moments. David Silver singlehandedly managed to create racial harmony when the black kids from Shaw High showed up at a West Beverly dance via line dance-inducing hip-hop in one of white rap's most glorious moments. Brace yourself, because you might literally be blown out of your chair by the stunning awesomeness of this moment. Take a deep breath and prepare to have your face rocked off, as I give you...SWITCH IT UP:
I jiggity jack jack jack to miggity mack, to switch it up, G! Swiggity switch it up!
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, rap, TV
Daily Douchebag: people who don't vaccinate
DOB: various
Occupation: gullible disease-promoting losers
Hometown: Anytown, USA
Current residence: Everywhere
Douchebaggery: I always get really annoyed when I hear someone talking about how they're not going to vaccinate their kids. For one thing, I'm annoyed they had kids in the first place, because kids are fucking annoying. For another, people who oppose vaccination are usually really fucking pompous about it and spout off a bunch of condescending bullshit like "don't you know that vaccines cause AUTISM???"
Usually when I come across one of these people, I school them hard by dropping a truckload of virology all over their asses, because they are wrong about almost every bit of scientastic made-up crap they patronizingly present as factual. For starters, the link to autism has been disproven by every major clinical study ever conducted. When you mention this, you usually hear something like, "Oh yeah? Well, what about the THIMEROSAL in vaccines? It's made from MERCURY!" Maybe that would fly if thimerosal was still included in most of the childhood vaccine preparations. Since pharmaceutical companies began packaging vaccines in single-use vials, there is no longer a need to use preservatives such as thimerosal since health care providers aren't double-dipping needles anymore. The rate of autism has not changed significantly in relation to the exclusion of thimerosal from childhood vaccines, nor has it decreased in populations that skip vaccination. However, I guess things like "studies published in reputable peer-reviewed journals" don't mean much to people like Jenny McCarthy, who has an autistic kid and blames that on vaccination. She went on Larry King to demonstrate her simultaneous desire to blame someone for her kid's condition and her total ignorance on the subject, as she went off about how the studies disproving the link between vaccines and autism were totally wrong. It speaks volumes about the innate intelligence of the anti-vaccination movement when they consider the former host of "Singled Out" and 1994's Playmate of the Year a more credible scientific authority than the fucking American Medical Association when it comes to the interpretation of clinical data from multicenter studies involving thousands of patients.
I Googled "people who don't vaccinate" just to see what other wacked-out excuses people were using to avoid vaccination. This one dude's blog, called "massivetruth," claims that "human diploid cells" (translation: any kind of cell except a sperm or egg) in vaccines are a huge ethical problem, because "some pharmaceutical companies are extracting them from aborted fetuses such as the WI-38 and MRC-5." This sounds like some sort of mwah-ha-ha-type evil scientist-type shit that has something to do with cloning, but the fact is the WI-38 and MRC-5 are cell lines that were isolated in 1962 and 1966 from embryonic tissue and have been banked ever since. It's not like pharmaceutical companies are running some kind of abortion factory for vaccine production. And almost every drug has, at some point, probably been tested on WI-38s, MRC-5s, or HEK293s (another line derived from embryonic tissue), so if you don't want something that has been tested on a cell line with fetal origins, then you better give up popping Advil for your headaches, taking antibiotics for infections, and modern medicine altogether.
This dumbass goes on to bitch about how "we also see a rise in super virus strands such as the ever-evolving flu virus. The U.S. Centers for Disease Control has noted that the flu vaccine has become increasingly ineffective. This is because the flu viral strands are adapting, becoming stronger. I personally attribute this to the mass inoculations people take without regard." Well, "massivetruth," you'd be better off calling yourself "massiveidiot" with something like that. Influenza is constantly evolving, but not because of "mass inoculations." Not that I would expect this moron to know anything about how RNA viruses such as influenza mutate more rapidly than DNA viruses (such as smallpox, herpes, etc.) because of the 100-1000 fold higher error rate of RNA polymerases. Flu viruses–which are taxonomically grouped into "STRAINS," not "strands"–not only constantly evolve due to their fundamental molecular nature, but they're not necessarily becoming "super" or "stronger." And the reason flu vaccines sometimes don't work is because every year, the vaccine powers that be gather a bunch of epidemiological data and try to predict which flu strains will emerge during the next flu season so they can make a vaccine against the top 3 most likely strains to circulate widely. Sometimes they are correct, and sometimes they are not, but it has to be done this way because there are hundreds of flu strains and the vaccine takes months to make.
In fact, the only thing this asshole does get right is that Congress passed the National Childhood Vaccine Act in 1986 to shield pharmaceutical companies from excessive liability due to vaccine side effects. The author notes "I can't imagine the guilt of losing my child because I let someone inject them with micro-doses of viruses." It's true that live attenuated vaccines (which are weakened viruses that infect the recipient but don't cause disease, like the Sabin polio vaccine) sometimes have side effects and can result in disease occasionally. However, I would feel a hell of a lot more guilty if my kid got polio the old-fashioned way and wound up permanently disabled or dead because I was taking drastic stands on scientific matters I didn't fully understand.
These anti-vaccine people really piss me off, because thanks to their self-righteous ignorance, they are bringing the vanquished diseases of yesteryear back into vogue. A measles outbreak is currently spreading through 15 states, mostly through the unvaccinated population. I would be willing to bet that population is comprised mostly of kids younger than 15 who have dumb parents that heard somewhere vaccination is bad and thus put their offspring at risk for diseases that haven't been a significant problem since the dawn of the fucking Cold War. I can't wait until polio starts tearing through the suburbs. Maybe when all their kids are strapping on their leg braces and climbing into their iron lungs instead of going to soccer practice these fucktards will realize how fucking stupid they are. Until then, take it from me (and no matter what people say about my personal life, I am a virologist by training)...don't be as dumb as Jenny McCarthy. Immunize your brats.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, epidemic geekery, retard rage, scathing indictments, science, viruses rule
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Brett Favre
Name: Brett Lorenzo Favre
DOB: October 10, 1969
Occupation: media whore and possibly unretired Green Bay Packers quarterback
Hometown: Gulfport, Mississippi
Current residence: Kiln, Mississippi
Douchebaggery: I have always been a Favre hater for a number of reasons. First, he's incredibly annoying and smug. I could care less about his opinion of how tough he is for holding the NFL's quarterback consecutive start record. While I'll grudgingly recognize that it's impressive he holds the NFL records for career touchdowns, passing attempts, and passing yards, I'd rather take his ego down a peg by mentioning that he also has earned the illustrious honor of holding the record for career interceptions. Also, I hate his attitude of entitlement. Certainly he's had a great NFL career and deserves the three MVP awards he won. However, thanks to the Cult of Favre in Green Bay, Brett seems to think this makes him some kind of minor deity. He therefore spent his last five seasons holding the Packers hostage while he hemmed and hawed about whether he was going to hang up old #4, and probably cost them the opportunity to build a new offense around a new quarterback thanks to his self-righteous indecision. I'm sure if he gave them a clear answer, the Packers could have an adjusted free agent and draft strategy, and begin the process of building a Favre-free franchise. Instead, he always had to go back to his farm, chew on a piece of straw or whatever it is hayseeds do when they're thinking hard, and at the last minute say something like, "Okay...I'll bless you with my increasingly inconsistent performances for ONE more year."
Therefore, when he retired this year, I was delighted, and not just because this meant a Favre-free and thus offensively shaken-up Packers causing fewer potential problems for the Seahawks in the NFC playoffs. No more commentator Favre-worship, no more hearing about his 8,756th comeback to old form, no more blaming his receivers for interceptions he threw, no more whining about whether his thumb will get in the way of his precious consecutive starting record...NO MORE FUCKING BRETT FAVRE! I figured he would just head back to the Magnolia State, literally put himself out to pasture, and drive around on his tractor. However, I figured WRONG.
Now, the sports media is abuzz with the information that Favre wants to come back to the Pack. Like the equally detestable Roger Clemens, Favre didn't even enjoy a solitary year of retirement before he said, "Oops, changed my mind! Tell John Madden to pull his dick out and get ready to start jerking rapturously, because I guess I don't want to be retired after all." I hate these assholes who make a big show out of retiring, spur a zillion SportsCenter montages about great moments in their career, and whip the media into a frenzy of nostalgia, only to change their mind and be like, "PSYCH! Fooled you!" The term "retirement" implies that you are fucking FINISHED with whatever you're retiring from; if you just want a quiet off-season, you should call it a fucking sabbatical (although given his unimpressive Wonderlic test score, it's doubtful if Brett knows the meaning of "sabbatical"). Claiming retirement when you plan on returning the next fucking season is just an excuse to have a laudatory press conference because you're in the mood for some fan adulation.
I'm not surprised that Brett Favre has made like Clemens, Michael Jordan, and Jay-Z before him and returned from fake retirement. In fact, he probably did it just to get a lot of pre-season media attention, because the second I started seeing headlines like "Favre mulls return to Packers," I braced myself for a bunch of lengthy will-he-or-won't-he pondering analyzing the most minute developments in the story. Today, I read that Favre sent a text message to the Packers GM, because he wants to return to the gridiron on account of having "the itch." Guess what, Brett? "An itch" is something you see your dermatologist about, not something you demand one of the most storied franchises in NFL history rearrange a recently (and probably inadequately) reconfigured offense to accommodate. "An itch," much like a whim, a passing fancy, or a notion, is not something that warrants fucking around with the Packers' salary cap situation (and thus other players' contracts). "An itch" only works in terms of getting a new multimillion dollar contract when you're a cocky, unjustly deified, aging redneck non-team player like Brett Favre.
The only good thing that can come out of this is that if Favre does return, he'll hopefully have one of those seasons where he sucks righteously, throws at least three picks per game, and blames his teammates for his past-prime performance. After he increases his lead in the "most career interceptions" ranking and gives plenty of opposing team defensive backs the opportunity to make the Lambeau Leap, maybe the NFL and the people of Green Bay will send that old horse off to the glue factory where he fucking belongs.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, NFL football, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: U.S. Army Spc. Jeremy Hall
DOB: 1985???
Occupation: patriotic atheist
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Fort Riley, Kansas
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: According to an article on CNN.com, Jeremy Hall was raised Baptist, but then he took up with some atheists and decided that was more his speed, so he rejected Josh Christ as his Lord and Savior. Converting to atheism or any other spiritual belief is 100% cool with the Constitution, and one might think that the dudes in the army (where Jeremy Hall is employed) would be okay with Spc. Hall exercising his constitutional rights. However, this is the military still boasting George W. Bush as its commander-in-chief and that apparently means onward, Christian soldiers. He was passed up for promotions because his inability to pray with the troops meant he wouldn't make a good leader. He was so harassed by his fellow men in uniform that the Army had to assign him a full-time bodyguard for his own safety. Therefore, Jeremy decided to do what any freedom-loving, red-blooded American would do: he's suing the tits off the Army, the Department of Defense, and Defense Secretary Robert Gates.
I applaud Jeremy for taking a stand, because from personal experience, I know that nobody should have to put up with harassment or intimidation at work. I also can only imagine it must be especially difficult in Jeremy's line of work. Apparently on his last tour in Iraq, his Humvee was attacked and he was nearly killed, and the first thing his fellow soldier said to him was, "Do you believe in Jesus now?" On other occasions his life was threatened, which sounds to me like behavior JC would surely condone. I know that Jesus, who all but said, "Hey, dudes, crucify me if you're so fucking intent upon doing so," preached humility and turning the other cheek, and forgave his Jupiter-worshiping Roman executioners, was totally the type who would make an exception from his generally pacifist teachings to kick some God-rejecting faggot's ass. Those Army evangelicals are certainly the embodiment of Christian love and compassion.
I find that attitude especially obnoxious, as I am a Christian myself. In fact, I'm Catholic, and we've since learned our lesson about getting too much Jesus in our military affairs. About a thousand years ago, Pope Urban II got this hare-brained notion that we should reclaim the Holy Land in Jesus's name, and so began the Crusades. Those worked so well that not only did we not take back Jerusalem, we ensured that the entire world thought we were a bunch of marauding, rapacious assholes. Not content with learning our lesson about militarily-imposed zealotry from the damn Crusades, another brilliant series of (probably insanely corrupt, affair-having, wealth-hoarding) popes decided to throw a party called the Inquisition, except by "party" I mean "witch hunt terrorizing Jews, Protestants, scientists, and anyone else with a brain having different ideas from the Catholics." That worked out well; thanks to the Inquisition, my religious faith can now be associated with things like the Iron Maiden, the rack, and stake-burnings. In fact, my own church didn't realize until John Paul II's hot ass decided to apologize to the entire world for the Crusades and the Inquistion. And the conquest of the Americas. And persecuting Galileo. And the church's involvement in the slave trade. And the Vatican's complicity in the Holocaust (basically, Pope Pius XII sitting around jerking off while the Nazis deported the Jews of Rome under his nose). My faith has at least finally realized how violently forcing our religious beliefs down other people's throats is sinful and contrary to the message of Christ, though it took us over a millenium to man up and say sorry. I guess that means sometime around the year 3500 the evangelicals will catch on that running their own Crusades (otherwise known as the Iraq War) is wrong, and so is hating on their brothers in arms who have exercised the religious freedom we are supposedly fighting the war to defend.
I have to give props to Jeremy Hall for being a true patriot and demanding that the Army recognize his right to choose atheism as a spiritual belief. I also give props to his buddy Michael Weinstein, a retired Air Force officer and director for the Military Religious Freedom Foundation, who joined the suit with him and is using it as an excuse to make awesome statements to the press. After pointing out that he has received complaints about religious persecution from over 8,000 service members, Michael made a bunch of sharp statements criticizing the "Pentacostalgon" needing to get the message that our brave soldiers need have only one religion on the battlefield: patriotism. And whether the person in our military is a fundamentalist Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, or an atheist, they are making a sacrifice for our country and deserve better than threats from one another over religious freedom. I hope Jeremy Hall owns the Pentacostalgon's ass.
Labels: Catholicism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dear God, defiance, hot dudes, legal drama, United States of Asskickery
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: male strippers
DOB: ???
Occupation: disrobing for cash
Hometown: ???
Current residence: in Brad's case, somewhere near Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend LL Cool Jew is the matron of honor in our college buddy Wmania's wedding, so naturally she took it upon herself to organize the wedding shower and bachelorette party, and the latter means one thing: hiring some professional semi-nude entertainment. Since before she married BigBagel, LL Cool Jew was a lesbian, we took her to Scores for her bachelorette party and had her literally covered in writhing topless ladies for three hours. Wmania, despite being a Smith alumna herself, has previously shown minimal interest in those without a Y chromosome, so LL Cool Jew realized that to return the favor, she ought to get a male stripper.
Initially, we planned to get a midget stripper to hump a small donkey, because Wmania used to work for the Democrats and because a midget would probably make the somewhat prudish Wmania go into convulsions from the shock. However, we couldn't track down a midget, so we had to find a regular-sized sausage showoff. Thus, LL Cool Jew called Amazing Entertainment and hired some dude named Brad.
The night before the bachelorette party, Brad called LL Cool Jew to get an idea of his audience. "Well, some of the crowd might be a little...conservative," she explained.
"I appreciate your candor," Brad replied. "Would you do me a favor and ensure those ladies have a few cocktails before the appointed time?"
"Dude, he was really professional," remarked LL Cool Jew, after assuring him that we'd get the "conservative" ladies (specifically the bride-to-be) sufficiently liquored up prior to his performance. Later she noted that she was fascinated by her "first official transaction in the sex industry" (although I've seen that hooker stuffing bills into plenty a lady's G-string, so that's not entirely accurate). We were all looking forward to seeing the candor-loving Brad demonstrate his professional skills.
The next night we adorned Wmania in the typical bachelorette party crap, including the piece de resistance, a blinking penis tiara. We popped a case of champagne and between the eight of us, finished it in two hours like the champion alcoholics we are. Then, the gracious hostess admitted Brad, claiming he was her neighbor.
"Oh my God, DUDE," exclaimed Wmania. "I know what's going on here."
Brad actually wasn't that great looking. According to FalloniusMonk, he actually looked like a grotesquely swollen Kevin Bacon. However, he was indeed very nice and professional (before beginning he advised us that he has two rules: no video although still pictures are fine, and no punching him in the nuts). He also managed to lay Wmania on the floor and remove dollar bills from her ginormous rack with his teeth without her looking too exceptionally uncomfortable. While she didn't look as though she enjoyed Brad's attentions much, the rest of us were laughing. Naturally, when her turn was over and Brad asked who was next, she pointed right at me and said "RAZZY!"
I sat down on Brad's provided stepstool and while he gave me a lap dance, I whispered in his ear that I wasn't one of the conservative ladies LL Cool Jew had mentioned in her briefing the day before.
"Okay, then you want to do something crazy?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said.
"Are you wearing panties?"
I thought for a minute. "Amazingly, I am," I replied.
"Are you scared of heights?"
"Nope."
"Okay, get ready to fly," he said. Then he grabbed my ass and did this:
I stuffed my entire wad of dollars into his G-string for giving me an extended face ride. Granted, I had a bunch of residual fake tanner and coconut oil on my thighs afterward, but it was well worth it just for the expression on Wmania's face while Brad twirled me around the room and tried to avoid hitting my head on any light fixtures.
Later, after Brad departed, the ladies were discussing it, and there were a lot of comments going around describing the experience of watching a jiggling beefcake as "gross" and "disgusting." I was surprised because, while not necessarily a sexy experience, I thought it was hilarious. Generally I think male strippers are pretty boring, because mainly all they do is waggle their thong-clad packages at you and give lame lap dances, they don't smell as nice as lady strippers, and there's usually some kind of oil on them which can stain clothing. However, I have to recognize a male stripper who incorporates a lot of sexually suggestive participatory acrobatics into his routine. I might dispute his website's claim of him being the embodiment of male perfection (on account of his not being a black doctor, a Jewish nerd, an MIT graduate, or a swarthy rogue), but I have to applaud his dedication to a lively and interactive performance. I almost always prefer female peelers, as they have breasts and are generally prettier than the generic beefcakes dominating the sausage-swanging circuit. Besides, male strippers never show their weiners, and I can look at a Calvin Klein ad if I want to see some well-defined pecs. However, when a male stripper can actually make up for his cock shyness and overcompensating muscles by inducing hysterical laughter, I have to give my wholehearted approval. Well played, Brad. I salute your professionalism.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, nudity, Wmania
Daily "Dushbag": Roger Clemens
Name: William Roger Clemens
DOB: August 4, 1962
Occupation: disgraced steroid-using Major League Baseball pitcher
Hometown: Dayton, Ohio
Current residence: Houston, Texas
Anyone who has ever donned the uniform of the most hateful team in the history of baseball gets no love from me. Clemens did it on two separate occasions, and I'd be willing to bet that if he hadn't been named in that whole Mitchell Report to-do, he'd probably be coming out of fake retirement yet again to sign another absurd contract with the Bronx Bastards. In addition to juicing, cheating on and with his wife, and playing for the Yankees, I now realize Roger Clemens pisses me off for yet another reason: the idiot can't spell.
According to some hilarious e-mails published by The Smoking Gun as part of his favored steroid injector Brian McNamee filing in federal court seeking dismissal of a defamation suit Clemens filed, he not only reminds us of his deeply ingrained narcissism by signing all his e-mails "22" and having an e-mail address including the term "Rocket," he also shows why he chose baseball over parlaying his University of Texas degree into a more scholarly career, starting with his inability to distinguish different forms of the word "there" and to properly spell two words I am intimately acquainted with: "douchebag" and "lawsuits." Not that Brian McNamee's spelling is any better, since he asks Clemens to "keep in trouch" after being told by Clemens to "stay hot" and seeks to "appolagize" for statements made to the press. Granted, I don't expect either the steroid-procuring "trainer" McNamee or Clemens to be world-class masters of the written word, but I would expect that a man who delivers sagacious proverbs like "Don't GET IN A PISSING CONTEST WITH A SKUNK" would have learned that one of the world's greatest pejorative terms is not spelled "dushbag." At the very least, one would expect that he'd realize that the threat of "law suites" doesn't inspire much terror in whatever sports reporter was covering the Clemens-specific aspects of the Mitchell Report.
I really enjoy disliking Roger Clemens. My hatred for him is like a fine wine that improves with aging. As time passes, thanks to Clemens's own actions, I discover all sorts of delicious subtleties which make my disdain so much more eminently satisfying. Stay hot, loser.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Monday, July 07, 2008
Daily Douchebag: back to work
I spent the whole holiday weekend getting shitfaced with my bitches in our nation's capital, and frankly, I am worn out. I need another day off to recover from my days off, which involved heavy drinking, cutting the crusts off about 8,000 cucumber tea sandwiches, and riding a male stripper's face (more on that later). Sadly, I have to go present my riveting research this weekend at the American Society of Virology meeting in beautiful, "Gorges" Ithaca, New York, and I have no days off to spare while I crank out a last couple experiments to round out my poster. So I can't sit at home all day and catch up on all the blogging which has been lacking and undoubtedly causing you all great consternation. But I'll be back in old form by tomorrow and ready to rock your faces off with Razzified awesomeness. Heart you all!
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: Daily Douchebag, excuses, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: "I Love Money"
DOB: July 6, 2008
Occupation: shamelessly trashtastic reality awesomeness
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: Sundays on Vh1 at 9 p.m.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In the past, I have wholeheartedly enjoyed Vh1's series of shows involving legions of fame-hungry skanks competing for the hearts of William "Flavor Flav" Drayton, Tiffany "New York" Pollard, and Bret Michaels on "Flavor of Love," "I Love New York," and "Rock of Love," respectively. Therefore, when I heard that Vh1 was rounding a bunch of my favorite aspiring rappers, former strippers and stars of the pro/am porn circuit, and assorted rejects from these shows and pitting them against one another for $250,000, I enthusiastically vowed to watch every episode. This show is going to be incredibly trashy, abysmally low class, and utterly exploitive. In other words, it's exactly the kind of thing I will totally love and chatter about constantly.
In case you missed the many (awesome) shows which lent the "stars" of "I Love Money," let me introduce you to the fine people who have traveled to Cancun or wherever to compete in the ultimate debased attention whoring contest. Behold, the incandescent figures who will restore/maintain Vh1's status as the leader in premium skankified reality television:
12 Pack from "I Love New York"
12 Pack was the overmuscled male stripper/bodybuilder/Guido fist pumper extraordinaire from ILNY who, despite his excessive protesting about not being gay despite having obtained work as a peeler for the sausage set, declared him and the latently homoerotic Heat members of an exclusive club called the "Party Boys." When New York booted him, he bragged about how he wasn't upset because he was on his way back to New Jersey to "fuck the shit out of" his ex-girlfriend.
Brandi C. from "Rock of Love"
Brandi C. caught the eye of extension-sporting baldy Bret Michaels when Erin AKA "circus tits" reduced her to tears via disparaging comments about her "meth-scratched face." Apparently, Brandi's facial injuries resulted from a car accident rather than methamphetamine-induced self-mutilation, which she considered "a disability." Much like her competitor of the same first name, Brandi C. fell back on a time-honored RoL profession: semi-pro pornography. You can see her skank skills in action by Googling the term "Brittany Burke." Of her role on the show, Brandi says "this is my life...I NEED to be here." Seemingly the Fates sat down at their cosmic loom and wove "webcam slag turned Vh1 reality whore" into the fabric of Brandi C.'s destiny.
Chance from "I Love New York"
After New York rejected him in the season 1 finale, Chance announced he was "about to go blow a blunt" and stormed off ranting about Tango, the "Ninja Turtle-lookin' motherfucker" that New York chose instead. Chance wound up vindicated when Tango dumped New York on the live reunion show, as even though he was such a character that New York's insane mother offered him $5000 to leave the show, he claimed to have too much class to drop New York on national TV. Chance is also famous for trying to promote his rap group, the Stallionaires (named for his family's horse-rearing business), and coining the term "water dogs" to describe dolphins. Judging by the number of Stallionaires money sign-adorned scarves and hats he dons, Chance definitely loves money, so I'm sure he will make a formidable competitor.
Destiney from "Rock of Love 2"
This bisexual stripper spells her name "Destiney." Enough said. Wait...is she a stripper? I just assume that everyone from RoL has worked in the sex industry at one point or another.
The Entertainer from "I Love New York 2"
Hailing from Queens where he lives with his parents, The Entertainer became notable when he tried to kick ILNY2 winner Tailor Made's ass at family dinner. The Entertainer's mother proceeded to get into a vicious war or words with New York's mother Sister Patterson, and ultimately New York sent him packing. The Entertainer has now stated that, if he wins the $250,000 grand prize, he will spend it on moving out of his mom's house.
Heat from "I Love New York"
Heat was deprived of his chain by New York because he claimed that in the hierarchy of women in his family, she would be entitled to eat last after his mother and his ya-ya. New York didn't take kindly to Heat feeding his familial matriarchs while she "starved," and sent him off. However, Heat didn't sit idly by. Along with his fellow entrepreneur and partner in drunken latent homoeroticism 12 Pack, Heat began touring the Jersey Shore club scene as one half of the "Party Boys." I'm sure he's going to make some smart investments with his winnings, and by "smart investments" I mean he's going to buy out the supply of Jaeger bombs at every 18 and over club in Bridgewater.
Heather from "Rock of Love" AND two awesome standout episodes of "Rock of Love 2"
Heather is the crazy hotness. Not only does she have the world's most refined taste in clothing and is singlehandedly keeping Aqua Net in business, she actually went to far as to tattoo "Bret" on her neck to show her love for the aging Mr. Michaels. Unfortunately, neither the tattoo, her talents at pole dancing, or her willingness to have orgies with whatever other willing skanks happen to be living in the RoL house were enough to win Bret's heart. I'm glad that Heather hasn't let heartbreak interfere with her career in televised drunken sluttery.
Hoopz from "Flavor of Love"
Hoopz beat New York out for Flavor Flav's affection in the original FoL, and then promptly dumped Flav (supposedly for T.I. which is a definitive upgrade in the short rapper department), because he is butt ugly. Unfortunately, Hoopz's triumph in FoL has not resulted in a meaningful celebrity career, and thus she's giving Vh1 another go-round. I suspect Hoopz will be a real contender matched only by the aforementioned elegant and sophisticated Heather.
Megan from "Rock of Love 2"
Since crying over the rejection Bret Michaels gave her, Megan has recovered and gotten "old has-beens" out of her system. She also discovered her calling, which apparently is rescuing retarded Chihuahuas. Given that she said her ambition is to build a house with a glass-ceilinged room so she can "tan even when it's cold out," I'm wondering if she isn't a case of a dog lover selecting a pet with a matching personality.
Midget Mac from "I Love New York 2"
I LOVE Midget Mac. In fact, I was so upset when he was eliminated from ILNY2 that I douchebagged New York. He's like two feet tall, he can't swim, he's some kind of rap video hype man, and his thoughts regarding his prospects are "I only nervous when the condom breaks." This is probably a reasonable concern, as he has two bastard kids and is thus accustomed to receiving what Lil' Wayne calls "that 'I think I'm late' text." He also apparently hates women, and refuses to apologize to Brandi C. for calling her a ho despite Rodeo's reasonable mediating. Unbelievably, Midget Mac got booted last night for his lack of "mental stability." Like the man himself, his tenure on "I Love Money" was apparently short and sweet acrimonious.
Mr. Boston from "I Love New York"
In last night's episode, Mr. Boston introduced himself by admitting that he posts his most recent STD testing results on his bedroom door as extra incentive for visiting ladies to venture in. Brandi C. later described his patented "Boston charm" as "creeptastic creeperson." Nonetheless, based on "mental abilities only," Whiteboy selected Boston for his team, which Boston later attributed to "Jews stick together, especially on shows called 'I Love Money.'" I suspect that it's actually more because of Mr. Boston's inexplicable talents at stripping.
Nibblz from "Flavor of Love 2"
A professional dominatrix when not being rejected by Flavor Flav for working in the sex industry, I can only imagine that Nibblz's gravitas as a mistress in the BDSM-for-hire scene is increased by the fact that she lisps unbelievably around her mouthful of piercings. She seriously says things like, "I'm going to dethtroy thethe bitctheth". I bet hearing her say dominatrix things like "Bow to your mithtress" and "Bend over and thpread 'em, thlave!" makes her clients submit like what.
Pumkin from "Flavor of Love"
Pumkin made New York's career when she spit on her during a fight on "Flavor of Love." New York went berserk, threw herself at Pumkin like a rabid weasel, and literally swore to "cut that bitch in half." Several years later, New York is still threatening to bisect her enemies on yet another Vh1 reality series revolving around her craziness, and Pumkin is still spitting for the camera whenever she gets a chance in the desperate hope of remaining relevant as that middle-aged-looking 20-year-old who spit on New York.
Real from "I Love New York"
Chance's brother and fellow Stallionaire, Real claims to be more centered than his tempestuous younger brother and seemed deeply saddened when New York sent his long-haired Jermaine Dupri-looking ass back to the horse farm in ILNY. I can't wait to see what happens when he competes against his family for 250,000 clams rather than the heart of the woman with the most ridiculous breasts on the planet.
Rodeo from "Rock of Love"
Bret sent Rodeo packing because she wouldn't shut up about her kid, and because he seemed to instinctively know that Rodeo was too mature and grounded to ever succeed as his television-selected girlfriend. However, Rodeo is back to prove Bret wrong about that by joining the skanks in Mexico to prove her love of money and Z-list reality fame.
Toastee from "Flavor of Love 2"
Toastee's brief dalliance with low-rent porn got her booted by Flavor Flav (who, despite his constant "WOOOOWWWW"-ing about women's bodies, is ostensibly a family man too good for dating a homemade porn star. While I think this is patently unfair, I have to admit that Flav probably dodged a bullet. During the intro show, Toastee showed viewers around her house in Pennsylvania, which is filled with disturbing roadkill taxidermy. She also wants to use her financial winnings to attend med school, presumably an offshoot of her interest in dissection and dead animal art. I think she might actually be a budding serial killer.
Whiteboy from "I Love New York"
According to Whiteboy, he's participating because he has "bills to pay and cars to buy, and investments to invest in." Spoken like the true would-be Jewish gangster he has fashioned himself to be. So far, Whiteboy has lived up to his self-styled hip-hop-influenced Meyer Lansky image and won an elusive team captain designation.
The only thing that could make this better is a guest appearance by Angelique (the incomprehensible French porn slag from RoL2), Tiffany (the incomprehensible drunk star of R. Kelly's "Rock Star" video from RoL who was constantly warning people against threatening her with a good time), Hottie (proud owner of the worst weaves–among MANY cheap extensions–appearing on FoL) and Lacey (the most evil roller derby skater in reality TV history from RoL). So, if you are remotely interesting or smart and you don't hate fun, you'll know exactly what you need to do Sundays at 9 p.m.: park your fat ass in front of the TV and switch the channel to Vh1!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Flavor of Love, I Love Money, I Love New York, media whores, Rock of Love, sluts, TV, Vh1
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Adventures in Labia-sitting
OK, so I'm trying my damndest (with the ever-so gracious support of Razzy) to be a good solstice. But more importantly, I'm trying to be a successful solstice. And as the summer solstice just came and went, I should be in full bloom now. Alas, if you're staying on top of the awesomeness that is this blog, it's quite apparent that I'm average at best. It's been over a year at proactively courting the ladies and I've come up quite short...dismally short: "FEED ME" short. Although I've earned my stripes, I've yet to find a hot piece that's at the very least available, and at the very most, simply not "Girl, Interrupted" crazy or too scared/confused to pursue anything that has the semblance of an adult, sexual relationship. I'm what many would call a novice lesbian. So much so that often times I feel like I'm 15 years old, in high school and just starting the dating process altogether- which I guess in essence I am. So I might as well write this post like the 15 year-old 'lil girl I've become.
Hi everyone, I'm Twathopper. I like girls. And I just started dating them, but I don't have very good taste when it comes to them. I like crazy girls. And huge nerds. Oh, and since I'm quite new to this, I still mess around with guys. Well, not anymore, but I used to. And I pick much better dudes than I do chicks. Oh well! Here's the rundown of how it's been going since last May:
My first attempt at snaggin a chick: Writersprout. Me framing an article. Enough said. Or better said, I got dicked so hard with no actual "dicking", or L'n P for this paticular matter.
Ex-boyfriend of 6 years: I'll call him WuTang, because he loves them. He has the tattoo to prove it, although he'll deny it. Anyway, we had a nice, one night fling last summer that needed to occur. I was solidly assured I was never, and never would be, in love with him. But I got some, and TRUST I needed it. See above.
Old dude: After that I made some alcohol related decisions, and old dude was one of them. I'm not saying it was a bad decision, because I found him to be quite smooth and good looking, regardless of him being 20 years my senior. Plus he had that Southern charm. Oh did I mention he's a client of mine? Maybe not the best decision I've made, but as soon as he mentioned that he saw Fleetwood Mac in their heyday (ya know when Stevie Nicks was the hottest piece going in the 70s), my pants literally dropped to the floor. But I found out quickly he was more lesbian than I'll ever be when I discovered all he wanted to do was L my P all night. I basically had to tell him to do me. And then even that was solsticey. Jesus.
Sarah Babysits: This was all about the Babysitter who cried "cancer." Before that happened though, I was just a sucker for a hot chick–and she was completely my type. But I'm the asshole who let her hang around off and on for a good 6 months, because I just couldn't believe someone could lie about cancer. Or as I like to say, I just can't wrap my brain around crazy.
The Bartender: During most of these flings, there has been one constant, and that's my bartender friend. He's sweet, normal, good looking, nice to my friends, complimentary, available when I want him to be and scarce when I want that. Oh and did I mention the free drinks? It's awesome and probably everything I'm looking for. Too bad he's a dude and I can't fall for him. Damn.
SuperLez: Two words: FEED ME. Again, enough said. Oh wait, more can be said. What Razzy left out, that I find to be a HUGE, HUGE dealbreaker, is we barely made out. Yep, this bitch found making out to be enormously intimate, and because she just knew it was physical between us, she barely would. LOSER. And if you know me, you know I love to make out, so I barely needed the "Feed Me" excuse to cut her loose. TRUST she ain't no Julia Roberts and I for damn sure am not Richard Gere.
So there you have it, that 's my abysmal year of dating. With the exception of the few nice guys in there (well not really because they're GUYS), the proof is in the solstice pudding that I'm pretty much the worst lesbian around. Or if I wanna be nice to myself, a slow learner. But I'm trying and Razzy is an excellent mentor. So if you guys know any hot, normal, available solstices, send 'em my way and I'm sure I'll be totally uninterested as that's completely not my type.
Labels: hot chicks, lezbollah, sex, sluts, Twathopper
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
It's like a modern day Deadwood, except we're not whores
In the meantime, check it out...Twathopper wrote about her adventures as a 28-year-old newbie gayelle! It's awesome and absolutely reminds you of why she is tearing up the world of consumer electronics public relations.
P.S. (Inside joke) The matching Gucci fedora-with-logo-open-toed-two-inch-mules white whale of gay pride totally farts in the bathroom at snotty Park Slope hipster lesbian parties. FYI. Bolsterous.
Labels: excuses, Razzification
Joba the HATE
A new Dunkin Donuts location opened down the street from me right next to the subway entrance, and this could not be more convenient. I love Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, and stop every morning on my way to lab. Getting my hands on an icy cold cup of D'n'D coffee is always an eagerly anticipated part of my morning, and thinking of it puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
You can imagine, therefore, how shocked and horrified I was to walk into Dunkin' Donuts the other morning only to practically run into this monstrosity:
Yes, there is a life-sized cardboard Joba Chamberlain guarding the door to my Dunkin' Donuts. Nothing says "pre-coffee buzzkill" like seeing a goddamned, motherfucking, sonofabitchbastard Yankee offering an iced coffee like Hades with a pomegranate. I realize that I do live in New York City, and thus tolerating Yankees fans is a daily trial I've learned to endure. However, running smack into a six foot image of their overrated porcine pitcher in full pinstriped regalia is an insult I should not have to suffer. When I say that I hate the Yankees, I mean I loathe them to the core of my being. I despise them so much that if Al Qaeda decided to launch a full-on suicide bombing assault against those cocksuckers in the Bronx, I would gladly become a terrorist. I would honestly prefer Dunkin' Donuts appropriating the image of Adolf Hitler for their summer "Bases Loaded" iced drink campaign than Joba Fucking Chamberlain.
Even worse, I went to the Dunkin' Donuts "Bases Loaded" website to see that they've managed to doubly piss me off with their selection of athlete endorsements:
In addition to the detestable Joba Chamberlain's fat ass, they've managed to get one of the fucking Boston Red Sox on their payroll too! Just because I hate the Yankees doesn't mean I love the Red Sox. I hate the Red Sox too! Their fans are just as obnoxious as Yankees fans, if not more so. The damn Red Sox have a payroll larger than the bill for the Iraq war and have won two World Series in the past four years, yet their fans still bitch and moan like they're the most screwed over team in baseball and they're never going to be good enough because of completely baseless superstitions involving Babe Ruth (and if you want to talk about shitty major league baseball teams and the heartache that causes, keep in mind that I am a Mariners fan). I knew I was onto something when I rooted for the Mets in 1986 (although in fairness, that was because I had Ron Darling's baseball card and I thought he was totally hot). The BoSox are the second most abhorrent team in baseball after the Bronx Bombers. They caused me no end of relationship travails in college, when I dated an obsessed Red Sox fanatic for three years. My ex Benzo is a great guy, but I swear to this day I become murderously enraged whenever I so much as hear the name "Pedro Martinez" (and yes, I know he plays for the Mets now, but he'll always be one of my life's sworn enemies after hearing him venerated non-stop by Benzo to the point of talking about Pedro's assisting Benzo's rotisserie league team DURING SEX).
I pray that Dunkin' Donuts ceases making marketing decisions that are almost certainly designed to raise my blood pressure and infuriate me. First, I have to check my seething rage at Rachael Ray's dumb ass wearing her terrorist scarf proclaiming that everything is "delish," and then I have to stay calm in the face of Joba Chamberlain squinting me down with his piggy little eyes and offering Joba and Jonathan Papelbom bobblehead prizes every time I go to get a damn coffee. I can only imagine that my murder spree will begin come fall, when Dunkin' Donuts will, judging by their track record, probably hire the Shitsburgh Stealers to tout Coffee Coolattas via bragging about their (totally bullshit) victory in Super Bowl XL. All I can do is hope for humanity's sake that Dunkin' Donuts doesn't decide to get together with Apple Computers, because either I'll have to go into lifelong seclusion or somehow bring about the apocalypse in order to cope.
Labels: assholes, fuck the Yankees, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sportsmen
Daily Douchebag: Website Source
Name: Website Source
DOB: ???–at least since 2005, when I started using their services
Occupation: the shittiest hosting company in the history of the internets
Hometown: ???
Current residence: ???
Douchebaggery: It's no secret that I'm pretty fucking clueless when it comes to the technical aspects of webmastering. I can write and edit like a pro ho, but if anything involving "code" or "root files" or "proxy servers" comes up, I'm completely lost. I suppose I could take a class or something, but that would take actual time, so fuck that. I expect that my hosting company would take care of helping me based on their marketing materials that suggest they are conducive to website-related dumbassery. Too bad they're a bunch of big liars.
I signed up with Website Source when I started my site because they charge $7 a month for hosting. I realize that you get what you pay for, but if that's the case, then Website Source should quit putting things on their website like this:
LIES! I had to buy a big "Webmastery for Dummies" tome to even explain how I could use different software to design my website (and yes, I know the rest of RAZZY.org is a neglected shitshow, but it's not like anyone comes here for the flashy graphics unless that term counts titty pictures). Every time I e-mail the tech support guys, I get some incredibly patronizing response along the lines of "modify this or that in your root files, you dumb idiot." Okay, the "dumb idiot" part may not actually be included, but its implication is incredibly palpable in every e-mail we've ever exchanged. One time, when I e-mailed that I had no idea what the fuck a ".htaccess" file was or where it was located, I was instructed to GOOGLE it. I may be incompetent, but I do know how to use Google, and I could have figured that part out myself. I assumed that the "little technical knowledge" the above Josie Bissett wannabe seems so happy about meant that the tech support people could explain this kind of shit to me instead of forcing me to go dig through some tech geek's blog and decipher a bunch of jargon I don't understand. Apparently, the "more resources" they tout just mean their tech support staffers respond to pleas for help with withering condescension.
This is even more aggravating considering that Website Source is off their game in terms of providing a quality service. Half the time I go to publish my blog, it gets hung up in some sort of endless holding pattern of FTP transfer. FTP is one of the few things I vaguely understand, so I know that when Blogger tells me "your publish is taking longer than expected," it's because Website Source is slacking on picking up the files I'm trying to transfer to my domain server. This pisses me off like you wouldn't believe, because Website Source makes it sound like their cheap-ass hosting plan includes all kinds of high-tech bells and whistles:
Whatever "Helix Streaming Media" is, I don't know, but it sounds fancy and high-tech. And I bet all those acronyms–like CMS, CRM, and ASP–stand for something cutting-edge. Also, that H-Sphere's pseudo-atomic structure implies that Website Source's hosting technology is at the forefront of low cost website servers. Those "Linux" and "FreeBSD" electrons revolving around the H-Sphere nucleus remind me of chemistry and physics, and those are hard, so Website Source must really know what they're doing if they're fucking with all that. Too bad they SUCK HORRIBLY. In addition to dropping the ball on the FTP tip, they offer the world's crappiest e-mail software, and their other services are downright appalling. The other day, I noticed that the "control panel" on my account offered a "URL redirect" service. People have been bugging me for a while to move the blog to the front page of my site, since it's the only part I ever update and the rest of the site sucks hard. I have not, because not only do I not know how, but I fear I might somehow irreparably tinker with file paths or whatever and fuck my entire site into oblivion. So I figured that I could use Website Source's purportedly idiot-proof URL redirect function to divert traffic from the main page to the blog. WRONG. Although I do know how to type "razzy.org" and "razzy.org/RazzyBlog/razzyblog.html," the redirect URL started redirecting everything uncontrollably and caused the browser to crash every time you went to either page. I cursed out my computer screen and changed it back.
The moral of the story here is that if you are like me and want to have a website in spite of the fact that you think "FreeBSD" means "free buttsex dick," DON'T USE WEBSITE SOURCE! For one thing, they totally suck dangling Cisco Adler balls. For another, like me, you're probably too inept to switch to a different hosting provider offering similar subpar services for less than $10 a month. Then again, you might not be able to heed my warning because it's anyone's guess whether I'll even be able to successfully publish this post.
Labels: computer incompetence, Daily Douchebag, Razzification, scathing indictments
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Talk ridiculously to me
The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"
"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.
"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"
When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.
For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).
I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"
Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Twathopper
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: homos
DOB: same as humanity
Occupation: totally ruling
Hometown: everywhere
Current residence: everywhere!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: So Sunday was Pride, and as always, it was a drunken great time. It's hard to be in a bad mood around thousands of gays during Pride because the atmosphere is so buoyant and joyful. Besides, being part lesbish myself, I have gone through the difficulties that most hommasekshuls probably face at one time or another: feeling like a freak, a pervert, a hellbound sinner, etc. Pride is great because everyone just celebrates who they are without reservation, and has a fucking blast. I have nothing but respect for the way gays can party their faces off with regard to who they are.
What I have less respect for is the proliferation of ugly-ass lesbians. I just do not understand why so many dykes just don't keep themselves up. There were more fat-ass harpies in stretch pants and pizza-faced trolls than I could shake a Pride flag at. While I made good on my promise to Twathopper to point out some of the ladies who did not fall into the category of "butch" or "dykes on bikes," I was less successful in pointing out some regular-looking lesbians who were actually attractive. Before the parade started, J-Sexy, I'mNotRussianGoddammit, Twathopper, Twathopper's friend (who I'll call CuteClothes because she's a snappy dresser...the last time I saw her she was rocking this adorable pair of heels and Sunday she was stunting in this hot-ass strapless dress), and myself went to this place down Seventh Avenue a couple blocks from the parade route for outdoor brunch, and we could not get over the sheer number of lesbians slacking heavily in the personal maintenance department. First off, a lot of ladies need to eat more pussy and less McDonald's, because there were some morbidly obese broads out in force. Unfortunately, said fat-ass broads were the ones who seemed to think that either white lycra stretch pants or a stripper-esque bra/miniskirt combo were appropriate attire for their size 22 asses. Second, a lot of the girls who WOULD be attractive were not making an even minimal effort to keep themselves up. I'd see what appeared from down the street to be a cute girl heading our way, only to realize that girlfriend needs to hit the Proactiv solution something serious when she'd get up close. The general sloppiness of the average lesbian wandering around was emphasized by the impeccably groomed gay men juxtaposed beside them. The group of super bitchy fags at the table next to us heard J-Sexy and I crowing about Tila Tequila's "snap-on tits," instantly became our friends, and we spent a solid hour making fun of the personal style choices of passing lesbians.
"Hey, I'mNotRussianGoddammit," said J-Sexy. "There's a girl for you. She looks kind of alternative and she has short hair."
We all looked to see this girl in a torn, dirty shirt, a pair of stained cutoffs, and a short, tousled mop of greasy hair.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked I'mNotRussianGoddammit. "I don't like HOMELESS girls!"
"J-Sexy, that bitch DOES look like a vagrant. And she's wearing a FANNY PACK!" I argued in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense.
"Fanny packs are in now! They're retro," said J-Sexy. "And anyway, she's not a vagrant...she's just grunge!"
"Grunge?! What is this, 1993? Dude, sorry, but I left my old Alice in Chains shirt back in my FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL!" I said to J-Sexy. I felt it was important to argue in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense, since she's a hot piece and can certainly do better than indigent lesbians caught in an early '90s time warp.
Anyway, after about two hours of this, we decided to actually go check out the parade. That was thwarted by a sudden torrential rainstorm, from which we took shelter in the nearest bar. Unfortunately, this bar catered so strictly to a male clientele that not only were all the bartenders wearing nothing but tighty whities, there were Sistine Chapel-esque paintings of a host of chiseled, muscle-fag cherubim on every wall and cheesy house music blaring at an eardrum-rupturing volume. "I've got my eye on that vinyl jumpsuit over there," I said to Twathopper, who started laughing, because this is a line that Brandon Walsh used from the season 2 episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210" where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into his Fresca at the "underground club" AKA gay rave the gang attends.
"God, this place is such a sausage fest," noted CuteClothes. At that moment, a group of lesbians walked in to escape the rain, and we noticed that a couple of them were pretty cute. Unfortunately, they were all couples. Typical. I swear, it's easier to find a four-leaf clover growing out of a New York City sidewalk than a lesbian who is both single and attractive.
We finished up our beers, the rain tapered off, and we fled across Christopher Street to Kettle of Fish, a bar that is marginally more lesbish. At least it's a more mixed crowd, anyway, in the sense that there were plenty of unattractive lesbians playing Galaga and watching the Euro Cup final. We proceeded to drink heavily while we waited for my buddy El Polaco to march by with his group of gay Catholics. He came by at the end of the parade, and by that time, we were shitfaced and plastered with "God Made Me Queer" stickers. At that point, we bid goodbye to CuteClothes (too bad, because I was hoping I could work the "So, we both went to Seven Sisters schools...do the math" seduction angle with her), who wisely remembered that it was a school night. The rest of us weren't so smart, and ended up going to Cubby Hole, the dyke bar where I was infamously hassled by the nefarious bulldyke Blu. Luckily, Blu was not in attendance. Less luckily, I was so shitfaced that I decided it would be a great idea to drink J-Sexy's overproof rum straight as we waited in line, resulting in me actually DANCING once I got inside. Not only did I dance, I actually smoked a cigarette inside this tiny closet of a bar, and then proceeded to try to convince Twathopper to actually talk to this girl she thought was cute. Sadly, Twathopper's alcohol consumption had caught up with her and she was rapidly devolving into a gloomy solstice depression. I kept grabbing her chin and readjusting her facial posture, saying, "Chin UP, Twathopper! Nobody wants to L a super-depressed P, girl!" Unfortunately, she was too far gone, so I said goodbye to the girl I met who was trying to talk me into going to an orgy on some boat. It's for the best, because while an orgy might be fun and an awesome story, I probably shouldn't accompany random bitches I just met onto a floating bacchanal full of strange lesbians from which there is no escape short of diving into the Hudson River. I took Twathopper home for some pizza and some good old-fashioned lesbian processing about her feelings to lift her spirits. I even watched a Tegan and Sara video on LOGO with her, and managed to turn her frown upside down once we switched on the choice "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Brandon embarks on a self-righteous crusade to block the High Point Center from replacing the Peach Pit.
I may not have gotten laid, and I may not have gotten my apprentice laid, but I know it was a great Pride when I was too fucking hung over and exhausted yesterday to even regale you with the tale and go off about how much the homos kick ass.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, lezbollah, NYC, Twathopper, vulgar display of faggotry
Daily Douchebag: dog haters
Name: ASSHOLES
DOB: whenever assholes are born
Occupation: hating on man's best friend
Hometown: wherever assholes come from
Current residence: Toronto, Canada and New York, New York
Douchebaggery: This past week, Razzyphile L&L e-mailed me to inform me of some very disturbing goings on at High Park in Toronto where she lives with her super cute French bulldog Lamont. Apparently, there is an area of the "off-leash" section currently being contested by various factions. The dog people want this to stay a dog area, while some bitch-ass environmentalist types have complained that the area is getting "trampled." The debate has grown very heated, and as a result, some sick bastard has decided to up the ante in favor of the dog haters: by leaving out bread soaked in antifreeze.
If you don't have dogs, then you may not know that antifreeze is one of the most famous dog poisons of all time next to chocolate. Supposedly antifreeze tastes sweet and dogs particularly like it, so every year there are some accidental dog deaths resulting from dogs licking antifreeze that spills from leaky radiators. However, for someone to leave out chunks of bread soaked in antifreeze in the off-leash area of Toronto's version of Central Park is nothing short of a cold-hearted attempt to murder unsuspecting pets. Already two dogs have died from eating the poisoned bread, and four are hospitalized. The detective charged with investigating has said she believes the dog assassin is motivated by the dispute.
I am always astounded at the lengths some people will go to in order to express their disdain for dogs. The other day I was at my local park in the informal "off-leash" area (translation: an area that nobody goes to where I illegally let my dogs run around), when some guy came up and said "Excuse me, lady, but there ARE leash laws." I took a look at him and realized he was just some fat motherfucker who had been sitting around the chess-playing enclosure several blocks away.
"Yeah, well, they're not bothering anyone here," I said, shrugging.
"There are CHILDREN in this park," he said. "We can't just have dogs running around when there's kids playing." I turned to look at my dogs. Caesar was sitting chewing on a stick, and Chingy! was sniffing a tree trunk/potential urine target like a wine connoisseur with a glass of vintage Cabernet. Likewise, I didn't see ANY children anywhere nearby.
"My dogs aren't bothering anyone," I reiterated slightly more defiantly. "And they are very friendly. They don't even pay attention to children."
The guy started getting pissed. "That doesn't matter! You need to leash those animals RIGHT NOW. There are children here!"
"Yeah, I get that," I said, starting to get pissed. Where does this motherfucker get off telling me that these absent children are supposed to be my concern? I HATE kids. I WISH my dogs would start harassing them rather than ignoring them in favor of sticks to chase and bushes to piss on. Furthermore, I can see in the distance that the chess area table this tubby fucker had just vacated was filled with dudes passing around a blunt. Apparently, my dogs not bothering anyone is a big threat to kids, but OPENLY SMOKING POT NEXT TO THE FUCKING PLAYGROUND is not. "Well, are you a cop? Are you going to write me a ticket?" I asked bitchily. I figured as long as he was busy getting high with his chess-playing friends, he wouldn't snitch. I figured wrong.
"I'm calling the cops, you fucking entitled white bitch!" he snarled at me, pulling out his cell phone.
I gave him a venomous eye-roll, and leashed my dogs. Not that the cops would come in a rapid manner for such a complaint, or actually get me in very much trouble, but in New York City a leash law violations isn't a ticket; it's a summons that you HAVE to go to court for. Not wanting to deal with that hassle and not wanting to ultimately pay $100 per dog, I figured I would just end our morning constitutional there. "Fine," I said in my bitchiest tone of voice. "We're leaving."
Unfortunately, even complying with his request didn't shut this fucker up. "YOU FUCKING BITCH, YOU THINK YOU OWN THE PARK?" he shouted at me. "YOU FUCKING ENTITLED PEOPLE WITH YOUR FUCKING DOGS! IT'S NOT YOUR FUCKING PARK!"
"Oh, really?" I snapped back. "I didn't realize it was actually YOUR park!"
"THERE ARE FUCKING KIDS PLAYING HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR FUCKING DOGS, YOU FUCKING WHITE BITCH!"
I'm not going to even attempt reasoning or shouting at someone whose argument revolves around the fact that I'm acting "entitled," I'm white, I'm a bitch, and there are allegedly children in the vicinity who can be somehow damaged by my dogs. Sure, my dogs were in violation of the leash law, but as I said, they weren't anywhere near him, his blunt-smoking chess friends, or any children. I always try to stay away from other people in the park when letting my dogs run around to be respectful of the fact that not everyone is dog-crazy, and to avoid such conflicts. Furthermore, there are a ton of people who let their dogs run around in this area, and to my knowledge no problems have occurred related to dog bites or anything of that ilk. This guy just hates dogs, so he decided to shamble halfway across the park to bark orders at me, threaten police involvement, and inexplicably bring my racial phenotype and supposed sense of entitlement to unleash my dogs in an unused green space into the matter. All I can say to a dude like that is "FUCK YOU, HATER!"
I can't understand where dog haters come from, because dogs make my life wonderful. Sure, they're a pain in the ass, but at the end of the day, my dogs are fantastic companions who bring a great deal of joy into my life and I love them dearly (even Chingy!). I can understand how someone like J-Sexy, who is a "tidy" person according to her, doesn't want to own dogs because of the problems with hair and slobber and poop-scooping that comes with the territory. Even she understands, though, how deeply dog owners bond with their pets and love them as members of their family. However, I cannot understand why anyone would go out of their way to ensure that my dogs have to stay on a leash in spite of not threatening or harassing anyone, much less resort to poisoning dogs for the crime of trampling grass in the course of exercising and playing. There is something inherently wrong with a person who hates a sweet, loving, completely innocent dog's existence so much that they would conspire to kill them with antifreeze-soaked bread (as well as any other unfortunate animals in the area, such as the raccoons that have died as collateral damage). Between the racist leash law snitch in my park and the underground dog murderer in Canada, dog hating is on the rise. I can only assume this means that the contemporary human condition is in even worse shape than I originally thought.
And on that depressing note, I'm going to go walk my dogs OFF-LEASH. Illegally. Fuck the dog haters.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, Razzyphiles
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