Friday, August 29, 2008
TGIAlmost NFL SEASON!!!
The last couple days I've been battling an annoying cold, and so have been taking it easy. I'm used to colds, as they are an occupational hazard of being in the rhinovirus business, but that doesn't mean I enjoy being stuck in my hovel of an apartment nursing one. To distract myself from feeling crummy, I decided to rely on my most treasured remedy for boredom and discontent: sweet, sweet television. There wasn't much on, so I spent my time flipping back and forth between the Jets and Giants games.
Preseason football never does much for me. It's mildly useful for deciding which eleventh round picks to make in my fantasy draft, but otherwise, watching the commentators scramble for background on the likes of Erik Ainge (he was an All-American in high school and Danny Ainge is his uncle!) and Mario Manningham (he smoked pot in college and scored a pitiful 6 on his Wonderlic exam) in lieu of actual stats is pretty boring. I tried hard to glean some useful information from these games, and this is what I got:
- Holy shit, LaMont Jordan plays for the Pats now? I was so disgusted with this asshole that I had hoped he'd be forgotten in the purgatory of Oakland for time eternal. Every year that fool is ranked as a top running back, and every year he averages around 15 yards per game with a measly one or two touchdowns all season. I know this from personal experience, since I wasted an early fantasy draft pick on LaMont Jordan two years ago and his woeful underperformance along with a string of unlucky quarterback injuries singlehandedly sunk my team to second-worst in the league. I think at one point that year I was so frustrated with his consistent lack of production that I actually benched him in favor of Correll Buckhalter, and it doesn't get much more pathetic or desperate than that. Oakland's stadium, the Black Hole, is aptly named with regard to the Raiders LaMont Jordan-reliant running game (and, actually, their entire offense). I can only hope that he brings some of that entirely overrated ass-suckery to poison the loathsome Patriots.
- David Carr is awesome as a preseason quarterback who will see no playing time unless Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning is grievously injured. Since FAS doesn't have to worry about losing his mental sharpness to if he gets banged up on account of not having much to begin with, he'll have to suffer some sort of Theismann-esque injury for Carr to take the field again and bring the offense that made me forget the Texans even existed.
- The Giants have a tackle named Guy Whimper, which is quite possibly the least intimidating football name I've ever heard. I guess as long as the NFL can accommodate players with inordinately awesome names like Mack Strong, they can bring in the polar opposite too. Not surprisingly, Guy Whimper lasted only a couple of plays before being carted back to the locker room with turf toe.
- Watching New England's third string and practice squad guys lose in the preseason is infinitely less satisfying than watching their starters lose in the Super Bowl.
- Jet Favre manages to annoy me even when he's just standing on the sidelines, as the Associated Press puts it, "arms folded, jersey slightly untucked, and safe from harm." He truly deserves a spot in the hall of fame, as he's managed to accomplish what few others have: he can piss me off without doing anything at all.
- Jets commentators can still find approximately 45 minutes worth of play-by-play regarding the nothing that Brett Favre is engaged in. "You see a cagey veteran like Favre really knows how to watch the game with a critical eye" and "He's really made the transition well into that green Jets uniform" (as opposed to the dramatically different Packers green uniform) were among the deft observations made last night by Greg Buttle during the broadcast.
- PRESEASON FOOTBALL–ESPECIALLY IN WEEK 4–IS FUCKING BORING NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO LIKE IT OR HOW MUCH YOU LIKE FOOTBALL IN GENERAL!
Once I got too bored to continue, I decided to go to the trusty internets and read about football instead. The cherry on top of my relatively boring night of trying to care about the deepest recesses of the Jets and Giants rosters was seeing ESPN's predictions concerning the 2008 Seahawks:
YES!!! Once again, the Hawks are heralded to take a division title! Okay, so it IS the NFC West, which is probably the most cream puff division in the entire National Football League, but I am always excited to see a Seattle sports team get a positive preseason write-up from non-Seattle media. I always like hearing phrases like "the Seahawks should feast on a weak division in Mike Holmgren's final year" and "This is Mike Holmgren's final year as Seahawks coach...expect him to go out in style." Certainly seeing the Seahawks characterized as "always consistent" and "one of the finer teams in the NFC" is a considerable improvement upon recent preseason predictions for other Seattle sports teams ("Mariners poised for disappointment" and "Sonics move to Oklahoma City.") Besides, winning is still winning, even if it's only against the dregs of the NFL better known as the 49ers and the Cardinals. I also wholeheartedly endorse any instance of (Tacoma native) Marcus Trufant being featured as the face of the Seahawks.
The next nine days are going to fucking CRAWL by. September 7th cannot come fast enough.
Labels: I LOVE IT, NFL football, Seahawks, sportsmen, TV
Bob is no longer smiling
I knew this was coming several years ago when I first saw a commercial for this product called Enzyte, purported to provide "natural male enhancement." For a while, these ads featuring the creepy, "Black Hole Sun" videoesque Bob grinning maniacally about his Enzyte-improved penis were ubiquitous on television, particularly on cable news and sports broadcasts. I remember seeing these ads and scoffing, thinking to myself, "God, men are so fucking dumb about their weiners. Enzyte is bullshit."
Not for one second did I believe that Enzyte actually worked to make cocks bigger OR more functional. Since Enzyte was described by its manufacturer as a "nutraceutical" (a very scientastic way of saying "vitamin"), I doubted it contained any cGMP-specific phosphodiesterase 5 inhibitors capable of treating erectile dysfunction. A quick review of the label confirmed that while Enzyte is made primarily of B vitamins, some minerals, some random vaguely sexy-sounding plant extracts ("horny goat weed"), and oatmeal (Avena sativa), it contained no sildenafil whatsoever.
I can't fathom how these ingredients make a dick harder, much less physically larger. Penises get about as big as they're going to get during puberty, and short of surgery, medical science has yet to discover a way to get around the limitations of human development. Rest assured that if eating oatmeal gave dudes bigger dicks, Quaker would be a menu option at every restaurant all day long. Guys would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Unlike the unscrupulous marketers touting Enzyte, however, the rolled oat industry has stuck with selling the cholesterol-lowering properties of their grain to the health conscious baby boomer and livestock feed bag markets, and refrained from touting their cereal as a means of "male enhancement," and this has turned out to be a wise move.
As it turns out, I wasn't the only one calling bullshit on Enzyte. Some federal regulators decided they would look into the suspicious claims made by Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals, the company running the Enzyte con. They discovered that founder Steve Warshak scammed sexually insecure men out of over $100 million by selling them a crap product, manipulating credit card transactions, and refusing to honor returned or canceled orders. Federal prosecutors successfully managed to convict Warshak on 93 separate counts of fraud, conspiracy, and money laundering, ordered him and three other employees to forfeit $500 million, and sentenced his bitch ass to 25 years in prison.
I'd be more surprised that Warshak was able to get away with a scam of such proportions if I didn't know how absolutely ridiculous men can be when it comes to their cocks. Their entire sense of self can literally rise and fall with their sometimes annoyingly mercurial johnsons, and I'm not even talking about in the bedroom. Phallic obsession seems to pervade almost every aspect of male life. Once my little brother got dragged out to sea by a riptide and almost drowned on the Oregon Coast when he was around ten or eleven, and after being pulled out of the surf and treated for severe hypothermia on the beach, his main concern was the paramedics observing "shrinkage." He almost died, but he was more worried that the medical personnel treating him might have been unimpressed with his pubescent package. And for all the trouble I've gotten in for discussing my sex life openly, I can't count the number of times I heard men in work contexts using their dicks as analogies for their professional abilities and achievements. If a woman shows too much cleavage, wears too short of a skirt, or is sexually titillating in any way in many workplaces, she isn't taken seriously, but men have carte blanche to bring their pricks into any and all conversations because their penis obsession is such an irritatingly prevalent aspect of human culture.
When it comes to sex, penises can be even more aggravating, and I'm not even talking about the physical aspects of penile function. They can make the guys they are attached to complete pains in the ass. I'll compliment guys on their weiners when warranted, but often they seem to interpret "you have a nice dick that I like sitting on" as worshipful reverence. One of my ex-boyfriends took to his blog after our breakup and wouldn't get off the topic of how much I supposedly loved his fucking penis. Obviously during happier times, I enjoyed having sex with him, but no amount of awesome penis-having could make up for the fact that he was an asshole who treated me like shit and fully deserved the summary dumping I gave him. Just last night, a one-night stand from a while back wanted to know why I haven't made good on a promise I apparently made to write about his "beautiful cock." Simple: I forgot I drunkenly said I was going to do that, and while it was a hot one-nighter and his dick was just fine, it's not like I've been sitting around thinking about how fucking phenomenal his penis is. I had nice weiners before, and I've had nice weiners since, and while I like them, I'm not going to venerate any of them. News flash, fellas: your dicks do NOT make you Jesus, Vishnu, Zeus, Gozer the Gozerian, or any other kind of reverential deity. They are just dicks, and you all have them. Most of them are perfectly fine (in my storied history of sluttery, I've really only come across ONE penis that was unacceptably small), and while I like fucking them, they are not what I spend my time fretting about. I'm far more intrigued by the rare man who I admire for the head on his shoulders as much as the one between his legs.
The fall of the Enzyte empire should be a lesson to men everywhere about their penises. While clearly they have been a driving force in human civilization, they are a man's Achilles heel, as evidenced by the number of dudes who were duped by Enzyte's marketing trickery into plunking down their plastic for empty promises of assuaging perceived inadequacies in this area. The most surefire way to coax out a man's inner moron is to neg his precious pecker, which is what Berkeley Nutraceuticals did to the legions easily hoodwinked into buying their oatmeal vitamin pills. Most guys aren't hung like Lexington Steele, and women don't expect them to be. A dude with a regular-sized dong who doesn't spend all his time fretting about it is considerably more attractive than a fucking idiot willing to invest in a panacea for his own insecurities. Besides, if a guy wants to be a hit in the bedroom, he should just learn how to give decent head rather than waste his time trying to achieve the impossible by bulking up his dick with a placebo. Guys should realize that overcompensating stupidity is far less attractive than any variation of penis size. Get over your fucking dicks, dudes.
Labels: crime and punishment, overcompensation, retard rage, sex, weiners
Thursday, August 28, 2008
People are such prudes
I saw this article the other day and shook my head in disappointment:
BARTLETT, TN (WMC-TV) - Bartlett Grove Park sits in the middle of a subdivision. It's a favorite spot for children, and was recently the site of an adult website porno shoot.
The video clip we discovered begins innocently enough.
"I thought I'd come out for the day," says the "model."
She then exposes herself on the playground slide.Some garden variety exposure is pretty tame as far as "explicit pornography" is concerned. After watching the clip of the local news story, I gathered that this chick pretty much just flashes her twat at the camera from the top of the playground slide. It's not like Anabolic was shooting the latest installment in their Romantic Rectal Reaming series there. A brief flash of sloppily augmented breasts and her cooch are a far cry from doing a double anal ass-to-mouth scene with Vince Voyeur and Lexington Steele.
"She's definitely a tramp -- just nasty," parent Barbara Taylor said in reaction to the video.
Taylor had a typical reaction.
"I think it's disgusting," she said. "I think I'm not letting my kids go down that slide anymore."
Danny Berryhill is a Baptist minister who lives right across the street.
"I don't have the words," he said. "I'm a Baptist minister, and I have no words."
Action News 5 is not publicizing the the exact web-site the video appears on, but it's full of explicit pornography, and there's a promise to visit more public places.
Bartlett Police Capt. Tina Schaber said the girl in the video is clearly breaking a law.
"Public indecency right off the bat," she said.
Police got on the case after Action News 5 clued them in.
"I don't think this would be appropriate for an adult to see in a park -- much less a child," Schaber said.
According to Schaber, the model and those video-taping her could be charged with a number of other crimes.
"These days, who knows?" she said. "She could be over 18 -- she could be under 18."
Action News 5 was unable to locate the "model." She writes on the web-site that the pornographic shoot took place just last week.
A brief search of the internets turned up the identity of the "model," and as far as porn goes, my blog is more hardcore than the park spectacle perpetrated by "nasty tramp" calling herself Foxy Jacky. The extent of her inappropriate public indecency is primarily her giggling and doing stuff like this ("have a looksee at my hooters, y'all!"):
SCANDALOUS! I mean, there are some mildly more offensive shots of Foxy Jacky providing the camera with some intentional upskirt action, but nothing that would really warrant disinfecting the playground. Her site does have some uninspired whipped cream blowjob pictures and trite hardcore on it, but...yawn. All that seems to be done in the private confines of her apartment, and is nothing I haven't seen about 80,000 times from do-it-yourself adult cam entrepreneurs. Frankly, I find Foxy Jacky's poorly punctuated narrative of her adventures in indecent exposure more of an affront to my moral sensibilities than any of the actual public nudity:
August 26 - I am sure this update isn't going to go over too well with the local police but I don't care. I was called a tramp and a few other not so nice things last night by the local news station. All of this because I took a few naked pictures at a park how stupid. I made sure when I did it that there were no kids around and I didn't hurt anyony when I did it so I don't see a problem. Now the local police are talking about arresting me for doing this well here is another set in the public that I shot I hope you like it and I have lots more to put up soon lol. If you have no real crimes to investigate and need to meet a quota I guess there is not much I can do here is the link check it out.
Foxy Jacky accompanies this scathing polemic with new shots of her flashing her ossified snap-on clearance sale tits at an arcade. Her brand of boring gonzo nudity might lull me to sleep, but I do have to applaud her for continuing her subversive behavior despite threats of police intervention. Not only is she sticking it to authority, but she's demonstrating the marketing savvy to parlay her notoriety into at least two or three more foxyjacky.com subscribers. Maybe if she really takes advantage of her ability to shock Baptist ministers into silence, she might hit the big time (ie: a slot on the next iteration of "Rock of Love with Bret Michaels," since that seems the number one vehicle for cam whores and low-rent pro/am porn stars crossing over to the mainstream).
If I were a resident of Bartlett, Tennessee, I would consider providing a forum for a "tramp" to expose herself a better use of my tax dollars than recreational equipment for hateful children to play on. Certainly I'd rather see public space appropriated by blond chicks getting naked than kids running around getting dirty, making noise, and generally pissing me off. Foxy Jacky has actually done her community a service by getting uptight soccer moms to keep their brats at home and off the streets, not to mention silencing annoying preacher types. Clearly, these horribly offended parties are a bunch of lame prudes who spend way too much time judging other people, so if Foxy Jacky's briefly bared pussy is going to keep them locked up in their homes and churches, I say give that skank a key to the fucking city.
Labels: crime and punishment, destroy all children, nudity, porn, retard rage, sluts
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Porn is for pussies, and I mean that in a good way
I got a fun piece of fan mail from a Razzyphile who requested the moniker DrunkenStumble a while back:
Razzy!
Though a contemplation of an email has been in the works for nearly a year, I finally had to send one in upon reading Aunt Jesus. Your Aunt Jesus smells an awful lot like my Uncle ... let's call him John (after the Baptist who, let's face it, looked more like a caveman than the baptizer of Jesus) who is a hypocrite of the highest order. He went from awesome drunken party boy to saintly congregation president with the turn of a screw. He also goes into what I've guessed to be Jesus induced hazes whenever homosexuality, liberals, or alcohol is mentioned. This I find EXTREMELY odd seeing that him and my dad's brother is walking that razor's edge between HIV and AIDS and is so far in the closet he's next door fellating the neighbor.
Now I'm one of many Razzyphiles on facebook and finally hunted you down to friend you on facebook, I can't help but thank you for bringing out my inner slut. Before I had met my ex I was so buttoned up that if anyone mentioned porn star I was crimson from the neck down and knowing porn stars openly was a bit of my dirty little secret. My ex introduced me to the site and upon the discovery that someone else thought Belladonna was pretty bad ass made me realize that living the boring life I'd had wasn't going to cut it. So, a smattering of mediocre bed rompings later, I find that you're the best thing I got out of dating my ex.
Now I finally have someone who also thinks John McCain is made of awesome and isn't touting a "God Hates Fags" sign makes the world a far easier place to live in.DrunkenStumble
I always love a good fawning e-mail, but I particularly love one that credits me for bringing a woman living an admittedly "boring life" to Jesus Belladonna. I think every woman could learn a thing or two from Belladonna, and not just how to (BOTH SUPER NSFW) make Cytheria erupt like Old Faithful or get double fisted by Jenna Haze. In fact, every woman could learn a lot from watching porn in general, and not just about sex. Porn teaches you what feminism is really all about.
Even when I was an angry feminazi type with a Ms. subscription and a chip on my shoulder about the patriarchy, I just couldn't get behind the deeply man-hating feminist theories of women like Catherine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin. These dumb bitches overcompensated for decades of being the ugliest fat hags at the bra burning rally by declaring all penetrative sex to be rape and claiming that pornography is a violation of women's civil rights. In a post she wrote discussing the world's most embarrassing Jews, my friend LL Cool Jew, a liberal, 1970s radical-bred, NPR-listening, lesbian on sabbatical from San Francisco, had some choice words to say about Andrea Dworkin the Hutt and her vehement anti-pornography stance:
This is a bitch against whom I passionately railed as a righteously sexually liberated Smith College junior for her repressive, primitive, man-hating, female-sexuality-mistrusting, straight-up-First-Amendment-violating crusade against porn. Saying porn does damage to women necessarily means that women don't enjoy porn, and every woman I know can attest against that. Anyway, don't get me started. Suffice it to say, thank God the good old U.S. Constitution was around to fend off that fat, embarrassing Jewess.
Even back in the day when I was wearing ill-fitting men's clothes, rocking the world's worst baby dyke haircut, jamming to my Bikini Kill CDs, and writing "RIOT GRRL" on my knuckles, I felt the same way as LL Cool Jew. No matter how pissed off I was about the nefarious patriarchy supposedly keeping us down and no matter how many bad poems I wrote, bands from Olympia, Portland, or San Francisco I admired, or unflattering pairs of Salvation Army cords I donned to express my subversion of the male establishment, I never directed my ire at pornography. Even before I had seen any porn, I could appreciate its intrinsic value to society, and specifically to women.
I realize that most porn is geared toward men and their fantasies, and that might lead an anger-prone feminist to believe that it is inherently sexist. I've seen a lot of things in porn that compel me to roll my eyes because they were so obviously thought up by a dude, such as peroxide blondes with five-inch acrylic claws fingerbanging each other and acting like they are shrieking with pleasure rather than vagina-ripping agony, or the feigned joys of a strap-on blowjob. The small amount of "female friendly" porn available is usually incredibly boring, relying more on romantic storylines and foreplay than hardcore fucking. In fact, if you believe "Sex and the City," women get off on shoes and relationship drama rather than any kind of actual sexual activity. However, to suggest that because porn is geared toward men indicates that it is exclusively their province would be wholly erroneous.
The other night, I was hanging out with a bunch of my bitches and I was regaling them with tales about how I learned to love performing fellatio. This turned into an instructional session involving me demonstrating some techniques on a beer bottle and referring some skeptics to recent posts from this very blog. One particularly resistant pupil continued to raise an eyebrow at me, so I said, "Oh, hell, just go watch some blowjob videos on RedTube and emulate it." The reaction at the table was explosive.
"I FUCKING LOVE RedTube!" exclaimed the hesitant cocksucker. "That shit rules!"
"What's RedTube? Is that like YouPorn? I'm on YouPorn all the time!" added one of her friends, who, I should add, was a pain-in-the-ass overly political lesbian.
"RedTube is my jam, for sure," said another one of the girls.
I should add that, of all these women, I am probably the most sexually in-your-face girl there. These ladies aren't prudes, but many of them are definitely the kinds of girls who don't fuck strangers or put out on the first date or have threesomes or otherwise engage in my kind of slutty antics. In spite of the fact, however, that they are all "good girls" with successful careers and lots of self-esteem, they are all apparently really into hardcore streaming tube sites. These women obviously don't consider porn to be objectifying or degrading. They consider it a source of enjoyment and a boon to their sexuality. Tons of women consume porn in spite of whatever male chauvinist trappings the self-loathing, man-fearing, sexuality-rejecting feminazi theorists of the old guard might base their wack-ass theories upon. The fact that many modern women have become so comfortable with their own sexuality that they consume male-directed porn with as much gusto as your average dick-jerking, woman-oppressing dude is a triumph for feminism.
I am happy to have done my part for the sex-positive women's movement by helping DrunkenStumble, a woman I've never met before, embrace her love of rubbing them off to Belladonna. Knowing that setting the example of an open, sexually liberated pervert helps other women achieve the same laudable goal is definitely one of the satisfying perks of being in the useless bullshit business, and it motivates me to continue singing the praises of smut. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch some porn.
Labels: correspondence, feminazism, I LOVE IT, perversion, porn, Razzyphiles, sex
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
May the fattest ass win
I don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" because dancing is dumb and stupid, especially that ballroom crap. I remember one time I was forced by some girls to watch Strictly Ballroom and I wanted to strictly murder everyone in the movie. Watching it with a bunch of has-beens (even totally awesome alumni from the greatest show in the history of television like Jennie "Kelly Taylor" Garth and Ian "Steve Sanders" Ziering) does nothing for me save elicit homicidal impulses, so I haven't watched more than five minutes of this show for the good of my fellow man.
In spite of my reaction to "Dancing with the So-Called 'Stars,'" a lot of people love this shitshow and thus even CNN writes articles about who is going to be on it. This season there's mostly a bunch of people I don't care about fitting the traditional DWTS archetypes. There's the gay ex-teen heartthrob (Lance Bass), the aging soap star (Susan Lucci), the failed vocational reality stars (Rocco DiSpirito), some comedian nobody's heard of (Jeffrey someone), old people you forgot were even alive (Cloris Leachman, Ted McGinley...although I have mad love for Frau Blücher and I'm glad she's keeping busy), random athletes (the hot-ass Misty May and the already forgotten Maurice Green), a retired NFL player (Warren Sapp), some former TV host/Maxim bikini slag (Brooke Burke), and some undeservedly famous slut (Kim Kardashian). I would like to know why of this entire crowd, Kim Kardashian's fat skank ass is getting the top billing when WARREN FUCKING SAPP is on it! For one thing, I doubt Warren Sapp will have the debonair grace that a classy guy like Jerry Rice brought to the show. For another, Warren Sapp is going to be the most entertaining contestant on DWTS of all fucking time.
I love Warren Sapp because he deserves a place of honor in the NFL's shit-talking hall of fame. This is a man who once claimed that opposing fans across the country were conspiring to poison his food to the point where he forced his friends to switch plates with him at restaurants. He once called Packers coach Mike Sherman "a lying shit-eating hound" and threatened to kick his ass. He incurred the rage of normally smiling (but nonetheless loathsome) Shitsburgh running back Jerome Bettis by skipping through a line of warming-up Steelers, and proceeded to do the same thing later to the Colts. He roughed up referees and then comparing them to slave masters. He's called out everyone from Jerramy Stevens to Michael Strahan to Brett Favre, and was one of the hardest-hitting defensive tackles in the NFL before he retired from the woeful Oakland Raiders at the end of last season with the comment, "It would've been real nice to retire with 100 sacks and all that, but I'm okay with 96.5. It's still triple digits, right?"
This also seems a good opportunity to address Warren Sapp's forays into the world of song-and-dance-related entertainment, specifically his role as Trina's philandering boyfriend in her video for "Da Baddest Bitch." Okay, so he may not have danced or done anything besides sit in his home theater and smoke a stogie watching game tape in the video, but conceivably one could dance to this song. The premise of this video asks us to believe that not only are Trina and Warren Sapp cohabitating, but that they use a Brett Favre Packers jersey for their doormat and have lots of cute pictures of them snuggling around the place for Trina to trash in response to his supposed infidelity. Given Trina's self-conferred title, it was decidedly unwise for Warren to supposedly cheat on her, thus prompting her to lay waste to all his prize possessions. Surely, however, Warren's collection of framed Buccaneers' jerseys are expendible when faced with the prospect of Trina's threats to "make you eat it with my period on." Frankly, I'd rather have a bioterrorism-inclined Eagles fan spit hep A on my porterhouse any day than earn my red wings with a hypercritical, Wedgwood china-throwing "curious bitch who took off to get broke off by the baby's dad."
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Warren Sapp was one of the most entertaining NFL players of all time, so I can't believe that Kim Kardashian is getting more press for being on DWTS. The only thing that bitch can bring as far as game is the fact that she's got a sex tape, she's ruined my boyfriend Reggie (Get in My) Bush with her syphilitic twat, and she's rocking the most famous ass implants in the world. Warren Sapp is not only a hilarious loudmouth, I'd take his monster gut over Kim's infamous posterior in any kind of contest any day.
Certainly Warren's gut is striking more fear into Philip Rivers than Skank Kardashian's ass is in Reggie Bush. Philip Rivers is doing some obviously frightened gladhanding and backing off like a bitch, while Reggie (Get in My) Bush is breaking out some halfhearted frat boy raise-the-roof moves to match the cell phone clipped to his belt loop in terms of douchebaggery. Warren is going to lay a blistering verbal smackdown on the Z-list ballroom set as he once did on the Packers offense, while Kim is merely going to back her bloated ass up and inspire her partner to apathetically surrender. In terms of a fat kid shimmy contest, my money's on Warren.
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Labels: fat fucks, hot dudes, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts, Stealers suck
Monday, August 25, 2008
It's a world of laughter, a world of horny local TV news reporters
Yesterday was my girl MillerTime's big 3-0, and I hope that she enjoyed it more than she thought she might. Ladies seem to have a lot of trouble with hitting thirty, especially if they haven't yet obtained their MRS degree, and all week I'd been fielding IMs from her saying things like "I can't believe I'm almost THIRTY." I have no doubt that a few Bacardi and diets at either the Roadhouse Tavern in Puyallup or Doyle's in Tacompton took the edge off, and she enjoyed her thirtieth natal day as much as she did other memorable anniversaries of her entry into the world.
Yesterday as I was at work between incubation times, I was checking out some "news" (read: random bullshit on the blogosphere). I stumbled across an article that made me wonder if the fates managing strange coincidence weren't celebrating MillerTime's birthday too.
TV journalist fired after ad reportedAs it turns out, I have met online "cool guy to play with" solicitor Jeff Gradney. Back in the summer of 2000, right after I'd moved back to the P-N-Dub from college, MillerTime and I went to the Taste of Tacoma, an annual outdoor summer bacchanal of gluttony. While there, we were approached by this dude, who explained that he was doing a story on the Taste for KING 5 news and wanted to interview us. After a brief interview in which we both confirmed that we liked walking around outside and eating like a couple of fat girls, this dude started hitting on us. At the time I was engaged in a torrid affair with my high school best friend G-Boner's cousin, and I was solely interested in banging him. However, MillerTime is a perpetual flirt and was going through one of her rare single phases, and exchanged math with him.
K TNV-TV, Channel 13, reporter, Jeff Gradney has been fired after he and his girlfriend were accused of soliciting male partners on the Internet.
Gradney, who joined the ABC affiliate three years ago, was dismissed Monday, after a disgruntled employee sent management and staffers a Craigslist ad, a source said, that appeared to show the reporter having sex with his girlfriend. The ad read: "hot, intensely passionate couple looking for a cool guy to play with."
Jim Prather, vice president and general manager of the Journal Broadcast Group station, confirmed Gradney was let go but declined further comment, saying it was a personnel matter.
"Wouldn't it be crazy if I hooked up with Jeff Gradney, KING 5 TV reporter?" MillerTime asked, scrutinizing his business card, after he had left to seek more interviewees.
Ultimately MillerTime never did hook up with Jeff Gradney, as he utterly cockblocked himself. He started blowing up her voice mail with a variety of increasingly sexual messages before she had a chance to respond to the first one. Any guy leaving multiple voice mails without getting an encouraging call back is at the very least unattractive; it signals desperation and overeagerness. However, when the messages turn explicitly sexual without any sort of physical encounter or other such precedent to warrant such content, it's creepy and off-putting. MillerTime didn't call Jeff Gradney back, and we forgot about him for the most part. I was unaware, for example, that he apparently left KING 5 for Vegas's ABC affiliate beneath a cloak of ignonimy for sexually harassing a host of his female colleagues, as the internets just informed me. In light of that, I have less sympathy than I normally would for someone getting canned for having a Craigslist-facilitated kinky sex life outside of work (which would be total sympathy; mind your own business, local news station!).
I think, however, it's fitting that this news broke on MillerTime's birthday. If anything, she can worry less about being thirty and instead thank her lucky stars that she's not getting DPed by Jeff Gradney and some random dude from Craigslist (who I can say from personal experience are a bunch of total winners). So happy birthday, MillerTime! Rest assured you are having a better time of it than your former would-be paramour.
Labels: aging, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, perversion, sex
Friday, August 22, 2008
The head doctor is in
"Really?" I asked. "I kind of love it."
"It's hard! I always feel like I'm going to puke," she complained, then made a face that plainly said, "EWWWWWWWWWW. You're crazy, Razzy." I wasn't surprised, because this same friend told me that in her 18-and-over clubbing years, she was kicked out of a banana fellating contest at some Jersey Shore club when she drunkenly ate her banana because she was hungry.
"Well, you can get over that with some practice," I said. "You at least get used to it. I mean, don't you blow your boyfriend once in a while to show him how much you appreciate him?"
"No way! I have regular sex with him to show him that. I NEVER S his D! He doesn't care."
"Oh, who are you KIDDING, dude? Guys LOVE having their Ds S'd. Next time you really want to show him you care, just literally suck it up. He'll be grateful...TRUST!"
A few days later, we were all drinking at this bar, and despite our best intentions to only have a few beers, after a few hours we were all suddenly brutally drunk. My friend decided this would be a stellar time to take my advice, and dragged her boyfriend into the men's room. She pulled him into a stall, pulled his dick out of his pants, and started getting her suction on. He is kind of a straight-laced guy, so this was simultaneously exciting and nerve-wracking for him. However, just when her drunken enthusiasm managed to overcome her reservations about fellatio and his reservations about receiving same in a semi-public place like the Latitude men's room, some dumb i-banker type staggered in and decided to drop a deuce in the stall next to them. Even a dirty girl like me would probably be turned off by a douchebag in expensive loafers interrupting a solid session of bar bathroom brain with an ill-timed literal shitshow. I'm not sure my friend ever gave cocksucking another fair shot, and she's since broken up with the gentleman in question.
I think that it's most unfortunate so many ladies lack enthusiasm for delivering a solid blowjob. I used to, but I've grown to truly enjoy it. For one thing, gulping it right down is the quickest way to have guys give your bedroom skills an extremely positive review, and I like having my efforts recognized. I work hard to be a hot lay, and I'm pleased when this is acknowledged. For another, there's something incredibly sexy about having what is arguably every man's favorite body part in your mouth. Men regard their penises with such reverence that it's almost like taking some kind of perverse erotic communion. Maybe that's why Catholic schoolgirls have such a reputation for being champion sword swallowers.
Sure, sucking dick isn't always easy. No matter what the movie Deep Throat might lead one to believe, I don't know any woman who has actually had an orgasm from performing that titular action. It's certainly called a "job" for a good reason. I used to avoid it because I thought it was too difficult, and I worried that I wasn't particularly adept at it due to my lack of enthusiasm. However, as I've gotten older and more experienced (Razzy Haters read: HAGGARD OLD SLUT!), fellatio has really grown on me. I've learned a few things that make it way more fun than stressful or unpleasant. In fact, I've decided to take it upon myself to respond to concerns and enlighten the ladies with my very own guide to enjoying rolling a fella's cigar.
The Joy of Cocksucking: FAQs by Razzy
Sucking dick doesn't do anything for me physically. Why should I do it?
The true pleasure of giving head for women is entirely psychological, so to enjoy it, you first need to get your mind right. If you regard cocksucking as a distasteful chore, then it's probably not going to be very fun for you and will only be a mediocre BJ by his standards since you obviously aren't into it. If you think of it like a gift you are giving to your man to please him, then you are thinking like a good lover and a decent human being, and you might even like it. One of my favorite things about having a dick in my mouth is looking up at the dude it's attached to during the process. Usually guys have an expression on their face like they just saw a vision at Medjugorje and won the lottery at the same time, and you can attribute that solely to your weiner consumption. You might not have an orgasm from it, but it's gratifying nonetheless.
Even if you can't get into that frame of mind, you can at least use head for practical self-serving purposes. If you want to get some brain yourself and don't care to ask outright, you can indicate what you'd like the guy to do by setting the precedent yourself. Also, if some drinks were involved in the prelude to your sexual encounter, the dude may have a problem with the liquor going straight to his cock. If he's having some trouble maintaining wood, then think of BJs as nature's own Viagra. Most of the time, a little dome goes a long way to overcome a bad case of whiskey dick.
Is there a way to get around choking or gagging when I'm sucking dick?
This is probably the primary complaint women have about giving head. Many women are concerned that they have to get facefucked like (big time NSFW) Sasha Grey or (also *EXTREMELY* NSFW) Belladonna in order to give a decent BJ. This is not true. I can certainly deep throat, but I don't think I can tolerate a dude jackhammering my throat to the hilt for an extended period of time without puking. In fact, most dudes aren't trying to be Max Hardcore and skewer your vocal cords while simultaneously producing gallons of gagged-up vomit. Unlike Sasha and Belladonna, I am not a porn star, and don't always fast extensively prior to doing some hardcore cocksucking, so an unmitigated gag would be very bad after an evening of slugging back brewdogs and bar food.
There are several solutions to this, all of which can be practiced to ease discomfort. First, you can deliver a combo job, or suck on the head while you jerk off his shaft. I generally think this is a supplemental maneuver to be used while catching breath between big swallows, because it's sort of a half-assed move that says "I can't be bothered with more than the most simple, basic head." However, this can be a solid way for beginners to get used to the practice in general and I encourage newbies to give it a shot. Another way to get more comfortable with deep throating is to practice in your off hours. It's clichéd, but a banana is a great tool for becoming physically accustomed with the sensations you might experience while swallowing a whole penis. If you slowly put it as far back as you can stand, then close your eyes and take a few deep breaths through your nose, you might find that your gag reflex relaxes along with your mind. The first response a body has to a dick in the tonsillar area is panic, and that brings gagging. Ameliorating your panic with some controlled breathing and chillaxation does wonders for quelling your urge to spew. Finally, an advanced move that can be used in emergencies is gross but sometimes necessary. Should you find yourself beginning to blow chunks during a vigorous session of brain surgery, you should immediately pull back a little and swallow hard. If you catch it while it's still down in your throat, you can prevent disgorging your dinner all over his cock, as well as his observing the decidedly unsexy move of swallowing your own vomit. This may be gross, but it's an occupational hazard, and it's important to master this skill should it ever come up (no pun intended). If you let it get past your throat into your mouth, you had better hope you've got a washing machine, a shower, and a well-developed sense of shamelessness handy.
What the hell am I supposed to do with his balls?
Guys are usually pretty sensitive about their balls, so you don't want to just grab them and start manhandling them roughly. Usually guys like them licked or sucked on, but don't suck too hard. You wouldn't treat delicate family heirlooms roughly, and the same policy that applies to your grandmother's china applies to your man's family jewels. If you want to really impress, you can always give the dude a hummer, where you take his balls in your mouth and hum (this can also be done on his weiner). Guys like this, but I usually can't execute it because I start laughing. Hummers are pretty absurd. One time I was sucking on this dude's balls and he requested a hummer, so I went with the first song that popped in my head: the Battle Hymn of the Republic. I barely got past the "trampled out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored" part before I was snickering about it. That ended that hummer. The dude sighed and indicated that I should redirect my attention to his penis.
But what if I hate the taste of jizz?
Simple: don't finish the blowjob. I love the taste of semen, to the point that I will ask a dude to pull his dick out of my twat and blow his load in my mouth. However, it's not for everyone. I almost always imagine a dude is making like Tay Dizm and inquiring "Can I be your appetizer?" before the main entree of regular sex. In fact, I hardly EVER give a guy a blowjob to completion. If I do, then I have to wait for him to recharge to fuck him and that's annoying, especially with one night stands I don't care to chat with much. I generally only give a full blowjob to guys I really, really, really like, and those fellas come along very rarely. Usually I work him up, but when I think he might be getting close to the grand finale, I stop and actually fuck him properly. Generally he'll be rock solid at that point and you can buy your vagina some dick time by taking a moment to catch your breath and throw a wrapper on him.
Should I spit or swallow?
Your call. I always swallow, but that's because I like cum and it makes for less mess. The urban legend that semen contains 5,000 calories per load is exactly that, so you don't have to worry about screwing up your diet (and it's mostly protein, so those of you doing the low-carb thing have nothing to worry about either). Besides, have you ever tried to scrub jizz out of your hair? That shit is like epoxy when it dries, especially when it's become extra proteinaceous from mixing with saliva. On the rare occasions I've spit somewhere in the vicinity of where I'm getting it on, I always have wound up with straight-up cement in my usual fuck-knot. It takes like half a bottle of Pantene to get untangled. Avoid that. Trust.
A guy asked me to bite his dick once. Do they all like this?
In a word, HELLFUCKINGNO! I've come across the odd gent who liked a little teeth here and there, but that's an exclusively by-request move. This one guy I used to bang would always say, "Nibble on it, Raz, nibble on it!" I would always double-check that he REALLY wanted me to do that before tentatively chomping down gently, because guys are usually so sensitive when it comes to dental-penile contact. However, while every fetish has at least one fan, that doesn't mean such a maneuver is universally enjoyed. In this case, it is most CERTAINLY not, so don't do this unless specifically asked.
I heard I can get herpes this way. Is that true?
Unfortunately, yes. You can get oral herpes from sucking a herpetic peen, so steer clear of any schlongs with suspicious ulcerations, lesions, or sores on them. Also, you can give a dude herpes if you have a cold sore and you suck him off, so if you have an ounce of decency, you won't put your partner at risk. Cocksucking to be a hot lay and a generous lover loses its mystique when you give a dude a bad case of the herp along with some killer head.
Do I have to do anything with his ass?
Not if you don't want to, but some guys do like it. I generally avoid anal play with boys because they just don't maintain as well as girls. Boys' butts are gross, and they usually pride themselves on that. How many times have you been around a guy who farted and acted like he just cured cancer or invented time travel? Even if they don't want a chick poking around down there, guys relish the nastiness their posteriors can produce. However, I've had a few dudes ask for some ass action, and I usually get down there to check the situation up close first. After making sure he meets my hygiene standards, I might give a dude who I like the occasional salad-tossing, but it's not a standard part of my playbook. I liken it to a fleaflicker or a hook-and-ladder play. It's not a regular part of my offensive strategy, but every so often it's warranted in a clutch situation, and when it works it can be spectacular. So my advice here is to use some discretion depending on your and your partner's tastes and preferences.
So there you go, ladies. I hope this is useful for overcoming any reservations about cocksucking you might have harbored. Now get out there and suck those dicks!
Labels: perversion, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
Parasites get parasites
I have never paid much attention to Amanda Peet, since any actress introduced as an "X Files: I Want to Believe star..." draws my gaze about as much as a bowl of plain oatmeal or a selection from Oprah's book club. However, a while back, Amanda Peet made me care about her for five seconds when she told some parenting magazine that not only did she vaccinate her spawn, she thinks people who don't are "parasites."
Vaccines prevent epidemic disease thanks to the concept of herd immunity, the notion that if enough of the population is immune to an infectious disease, said pathogen won't be able to cause an epidemic because it can't spread due to a dearth of susceptible people. Amanda Peet's point seems to be that people who choose not to vaccinate their children are relying on herd immunity rather than maintaining it themselves. Ultimately, like with parasites, this will be detrimental as the ranks of the unvaccinated swell to provide a new reservoir of infection.
Viruses are by definition parasites. They are technically not considered "living" by biologists because they cannot reproduce without a host cell. Viruses then reproduce at the expense of their host, appropriating molecular machinery normally performing cellular functions for viral replication. Therefore, Amanda Peet's observation concerning the parasitism of parents who don't vaccinate (usually because of vague, unfounded concerns about autism) is underscored by the irony of their kids succumbing to the very diseases they choose not to protect their children–and the entire population–against. Congratulations, idiots: your kids don't have autism, but they sure as fuck are enjoying a scourge of yesteryear like motherfucking MEASLES.
The last time I wrote about vaccination, I got a bunch of haughty referrals to various websites "proving" the link between immunization and autism. This "proof" amounts to little more than circumstantial evidence and the hysterical first-person accounts of parents whose children were diagnosed with autism around the same time they received their first immunizations...since coincidentally, autism typically becomes apparent around age two. Because autism has increased as childhood vaccination has become more prevalent, the two must be related. Never mind that autism was basically unrecognized as a legitimate disorder until 1938, and wasn't officially diagnosed until 1943. One could argue that given the coincidental chronology of autism diagnoses and childhood immunization, the increases have more to do with physician awareness about autism than with vaccines taken by the vast majority of the population. I don't see anyone blaming global warming, nuclear power, or whatever other unfortunate by-product of our developed civilization for autism. This is because those arguments are obviously bullshit, so people unfortunate enough to have an autistic kid rely on scientastic misinterpretations of epidemiology statistics concerning a topic most people are poorly educated about: vaccination.
Vaccination has been going strong since the fucking tenth century, when the Chinese realized that infecting someone with a low dose of smallpox produces immunity (although sometimes had the unfortunate consequence of actually causing smallpox). This practice, known as variolation, was used until Edward Jenner developed vaccination in the eighteenth century. Edward Jenner was a physician in the English countryside who observed that milkmaids were relatively immune to smallpox and this resistance seemed associated with crusty sores on the milkmaids' faces. In an experiment reflecting the extremely lax ethical standards of the time, he took scrapings of the milkmaids' faces and injected them into a ten-year-old boy who had never contracted smallpox. He subsequently injected the boy with the exudate of pustules from a smallpox patient, and observed that the boy did not develop disease. Though he did not know it at the time, infection with the cowpox virus causing the unattractive but relatively harmless milkmaid face sores elicits antibodies which cross-react and protect against smallpox. The old timey medical name for cowpox is vaccinia virus; hence the term "vaccination." While vaccination is no longer practiced in the literal sense since smallpox was eradicated in 1972, we refer to immunization as "vaccination" out of convention.
The development of vaccination radically changed the way we regard epidemic disease, and as far as viruses are concerned, smallpox was one of the worst. I guarantee if these assholes who spend their time reading blogs written by parents more concerned with seeking an explanation for their child's autism than being scientifically factual were faced with the prospect of their kid coming down with variola major, they would be singing a different tune. Behold, the disease which merited the original vaccine:
Measles might not be QUITE as bad or as deadly as smallpox, but it's still pretty fucking gross:
If you are stupid enough to believe that you're protecting your kids from unsubstantiated, conjecture-based autism risks by declining to immunize them, consider that by making this decision, you are not only exposing them to the risk of contracting the disease above, you are putting everyone else's kids (especially those too young to be vaccinated, who are more likely to die from measles) at risk too. You truly are a parasite, as your own need for enforcing your ignorance damages everyone else's right to public health. Shut the fuck up and stick your kids with the MMR.
Vaccines prevent epidemic disease thanks to the concept of herd immunity, the notion that if enough of the population is immune to an infectious disease, said pathogen won't be able to cause an epidemic because it can't spread due to a dearth of susceptible people. Amanda Peet's point seems to be that people who choose not to vaccinate their children are relying on herd immunity rather than maintaining it themselves. Ultimately, like with parasites, this will be detrimental as the ranks of the unvaccinated swell to provide a new reservoir of infection.
Viruses are by definition parasites. They are technically not considered "living" by biologists because they cannot reproduce without a host cell. Viruses then reproduce at the expense of their host, appropriating molecular machinery normally performing cellular functions for viral replication. Therefore, Amanda Peet's observation concerning the parasitism of parents who don't vaccinate (usually because of vague, unfounded concerns about autism) is underscored by the irony of their kids succumbing to the very diseases they choose not to protect their children–and the entire population–against. Congratulations, idiots: your kids don't have autism, but they sure as fuck are enjoying a scourge of yesteryear like motherfucking MEASLES.
Measles cases in the U.S. are at the highest level in more than a decade, with nearly half of those involving children whose parents rejected vaccination, health officials reported Thursday.Although Jenny McCarthy literally screamed "BULLSHIT!" on Larry King about this, the fact is that no matter how much she wants something to blame for her son's autism, there is no correlation between autism and childhood vaccines. In fact, 10 of the 13 authors of the only legitimate study to ever speculate about a causal link between the MMR vaccine and autism have retracted their conclusions. That study examined only a dozen autistic children, and other studies examining thousands of patients have repeatedly shown no statistically significant causal relationship between vaccination and autism. There is, however, a direct correlation between measles outbreaks and a refusal to vaccinate. As these recent measles outbreaks demonstrate, vaccines are a much less serious public health problem than the abject stupidity of people who rely on former Playmates and Candies shoe spokesmodels for medical information.
Worried doctors are troubled by the trend fueled by unfounded fears that vaccines may cause autism. The number of cases is still small, just 131, but that's only for the first seven months of the year. There were only 42 cases for all of last year.
In a typical year, only one outbreak occurs in the United States, infecting perhaps 10 to 20 people. So far this year through July 30 the country has seen seven outbreaks, including one in Illinois with 30 cases, said Seward, of the CDC's Division of Viral Diseases.
None of the 131 patients died, but 15 were hospitalized.
Childhood measles vaccination rates have stayed above 92 percent, according to 2006 data. However, the recent outbreaks suggest potential pockets of unvaccinated children are forming. Health officials worry that vaccination rates have begun to fall — something that won't show up in the data for a couple of years.
The vaccine is considered highly effective but not perfect; 11 of this year's cases had at least one dose of the vaccine.
Of this year's total, 122 were unvaccinated or had unknown vaccination status. Some were unvaccinated because the children were under age 1 — too young to get their first measles shot.
In 63 of those cases — almost all of them 19 or under — the patient or their parents refused the shots for philosophical or religious reasons, the CDC reported.
In Washington state, an outbreak was traced to a church conference, including 16 school-aged children who were not vaccinated. Eleven of those kids were home schooled and not subject to vaccination rules in public schools. It's unclear why the parents rejected the vaccine.
The last time I wrote about vaccination, I got a bunch of haughty referrals to various websites "proving" the link between immunization and autism. This "proof" amounts to little more than circumstantial evidence and the hysterical first-person accounts of parents whose children were diagnosed with autism around the same time they received their first immunizations...since coincidentally, autism typically becomes apparent around age two. Because autism has increased as childhood vaccination has become more prevalent, the two must be related. Never mind that autism was basically unrecognized as a legitimate disorder until 1938, and wasn't officially diagnosed until 1943. One could argue that given the coincidental chronology of autism diagnoses and childhood immunization, the increases have more to do with physician awareness about autism than with vaccines taken by the vast majority of the population. I don't see anyone blaming global warming, nuclear power, or whatever other unfortunate by-product of our developed civilization for autism. This is because those arguments are obviously bullshit, so people unfortunate enough to have an autistic kid rely on scientastic misinterpretations of epidemiology statistics concerning a topic most people are poorly educated about: vaccination.
Vaccination has been going strong since the fucking tenth century, when the Chinese realized that infecting someone with a low dose of smallpox produces immunity (although sometimes had the unfortunate consequence of actually causing smallpox). This practice, known as variolation, was used until Edward Jenner developed vaccination in the eighteenth century. Edward Jenner was a physician in the English countryside who observed that milkmaids were relatively immune to smallpox and this resistance seemed associated with crusty sores on the milkmaids' faces. In an experiment reflecting the extremely lax ethical standards of the time, he took scrapings of the milkmaids' faces and injected them into a ten-year-old boy who had never contracted smallpox. He subsequently injected the boy with the exudate of pustules from a smallpox patient, and observed that the boy did not develop disease. Though he did not know it at the time, infection with the cowpox virus causing the unattractive but relatively harmless milkmaid face sores elicits antibodies which cross-react and protect against smallpox. The old timey medical name for cowpox is vaccinia virus; hence the term "vaccination." While vaccination is no longer practiced in the literal sense since smallpox was eradicated in 1972, we refer to immunization as "vaccination" out of convention.
The development of vaccination radically changed the way we regard epidemic disease, and as far as viruses are concerned, smallpox was one of the worst. I guarantee if these assholes who spend their time reading blogs written by parents more concerned with seeking an explanation for their child's autism than being scientifically factual were faced with the prospect of their kid coming down with variola major, they would be singing a different tune. Behold, the disease which merited the original vaccine:
Labels: epidemic geekery, retard rage, scathing indictments, science, viruses rule
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I miss Valerie more
I saw today that the CW has released a new promo video for Bev Niner 2.0 today featuring none other than the legendary Shannen "Brenda Walsh" Doherty. This video was expressly designed to get my Brendaphile friends like JerseyGirl and Twathopper hyperventilating with excitement. I can practically hear JerseyGirl all the way across the George Washington Bridge in her Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey office shouting "O! M! G! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!" True to form, Twathopper just e-mailed me about this informing me that "I think I just had an O at my desk."
In case you aredumb and stupid not a fan of the greatest show in the history of television ("Beverly Hills, 90210"...DUH!), let me explain a little bit about Brenda Walsh. The tempestuous younger (by four minutes) twin sister of the insufferably moral Brandon Walsh, she emigrated to America's most infamous zip code when her accountant father Jim was transferred from Minneapolis and immediately commenced starting a bunch of dramatic shit. Prior to the arrival of the duplicitous uber-slut Valerie Malone in season 5, I was always on Team Kelly Taylor, but I have to appreciate Brenda's ability to create some extremely memorable television moments. Here's a brief summary of her scandals:
In case you are
- Lost virginity at the West Beverly Spring Dance with the moody, annoying 35-year-old trust fund surfer rebel alcoholic Dylan McKay
- Rocked the most righteous cameltoe in the history of No Excuses high-waisted jeans and bodysuits
- Afraid of guys who smash flowerpots out of drunken paternally-directed rage outside the Bel Age Hotel
- Experienced the most hilarious ringing bell-triggered post-traumatic stress disorder following a robbery at gunpoint in the Peach Pit
- Busted by mom Cindy for teenage fucking because she wrapped a pregnancy test in clear plastic and stuck it in the wrong recycling bin
- Compensated for her ineptitude at Peach Pit waitressing skills by assuming the guise of Brooklyn native Laverne (pronounce "Lavoine")
- Screamed, "I HATE YOU! NEVER TALK TO ME AGAIN!" when advised that Dylan was busy fucking Kelly in her Beverly Beach Club cabana while Brenda spent a summer in Paris
- Managed to convince Dean Cain, a nice midwestern guy spending his junior year at UCLA abroad in France, that she was named "Brenda DuBois" and was a native Parisian. Hilariously says in her faux Françoise accent, "Weesconseen? Eez that near Meenasota? I 'ave been zere to veezit."
- Disrupted an avant garde play in which she was supposed to strip down by performing an improv comedy routine instead
- Almost eloped to Las Vegas with billionaire real estate heir Stuart Carson after their third date, but changed her mind after a screaming match with him
- Arrested by the FBI for attempting to free Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman's SIDS lab cats with a radical ecoterrorist animal rights faction
- ALMOST slept with wannabe Dumas character and stage director Roy Randolph to secure the lead in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but just impressed him with her amazing acting skills (see below)
- Was as much of a bitch in real life as she was on the show; got canned for getting into an on-set fist fight with Jennie Garth at the end of season 4
Labels: Bev Niner, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, Twathopper
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Daily Next Six Months' Douchebag: Razzy
While this may cause a great deal of lamentation and sorrow among my legions of dedicated Razzphiles, I have to sadly announce that the "Daily Douchebag" and "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" features are indefinitely suspended.
I'm sure you all just attempted to punch your computer screens in shock and rage, but before you destroy your gateway to the internets, let me offer an explanation. The other day, one of my lovely anonymous Razzy Haters left the following comment:
Sure, make fun of world class athletes who are actually succeeding in life. Of course, you are successful, if you consider being an alcoholic a success. How about publishing some articles? So much for publish or perish: no wonder Columbia is the laughingstock of the Ivy League. By the way, you have already failed in your goal to model rhinovirus in mice (see: Bartlett et al. 2008 Nature Medicine)
I thank the commenter for recognizing my achievements in avoiding sobriety, and applaud them for picking on me in a way that I figured someone would have done a long time ago: hating on my publication record. It's true that I have not published my research in a peer-reviewed journal, primarily because, as the commenter also notes, my thesis project has been an abject disaster. I spent my first three years in graduate school working on a transgenic mouse. "Transgenic" means that it was genetically fucked with to express the human receptor for rhinovirus. In theory, this would mean that it would express said receptor in its respiratory tract, and thus be susceptible to infection with some mouse-adapted rhinoviruses we had sitting around the lab. I showed by every means possible that this mouse had integrated the transgene into its germline DNA (PCR and Southern blot), it was expressing the transgene (Northern blot and real-time quantitative PCR), and the receptor was present in the mouse trachea (immunohistochemistry). However, the mice still were not supporting virus replication, so I eventually did some flow cytometry and saw to my horror that the receptor was not present on the cell surface. Since the receptor normally is responsible for snagging the virus at the cell surface and bringing it into the cell, this was a major blow to my thesis work. After three years of doing every experiment imaginable to understand what was going on, I realized that while this mouse might be transgenic, it was never going to be susceptible to infection. With a heavy heart, I sacrificed the mice and began to plot a plan B.
Because making transgenic mice is time-consuming and expensive, I decided to instead isolate rhinoviruses that could use a mouse cell surface protein as a receptor. This means I can use any mouse to develop my model, but first I need some rhinoviruses that can grow in mice. The reason why people aren't busy doing all kinds of in vivo work with the common cold is that rhinovirus does not grow well in mouse cells at all. There is a block at the level of viral RNA replication that results in negligible production of infectious virus from mouse cells either infected with virus or transfected with viral RNA (in human cells, you can just pop the viral genetic material itself into a cell, this will be translated into viral proteins and replicated by the viral polymerase, and voila–the cell makes new virus). So I spent the next two and a half years passaging rhinoviruses capable of using the mouse LDL receptor for entry back and forth between mouse and human cells, to select variants which grow better in mouse cells. I did this through two different mouse cell lines, and finally showed that I did indeed select viruses with robust growth in mouse cells. The next step would be to try it in actual living mice.
Unfortunately, right at that time, an epidemic of mouse hepatitis virus tore through our mouse facility. The veterinarians made me stop breeding my colony for five months, which translates to NO MORE MOUSE WORK. So I spent that time trying in earnest to clone my adapted viruses, which has been a whole other technical bitch and a half that I won't get into. A few months ago, I was given the go-ahead to resume breeding, and I thought, "FINALLY! I can get these mouse experiments finished, write it up, maybe dabble in some asthma work, get Ph.ake doctored, and get a real job (or a post-doc)!" However, the technicians in my animal room have been rough with maintaining our colony and all the dams (mommy mice) have been on a gluttonous spree of eating their young. When mice get stressed, they tend to eat their newborn pups because they're stupid and gross. I tried to avoid this by instructing the mouse facility staff to add cotton nestlets (squares of cotton that the mice shred up and nest in), ensure they are eating breeder chow for maximum fertility, and not disturb cages with newborn pups (baby mice). The technicians have not heeded these formally requested instructions, so I had to send a bitchy e-mail to their boss. How many of you have ever had to address the topic of CANNIBALISM in a work e-mail?
I was just in our mouse room and noticed that many of our breeder cages did not have extra cotton nestlets and, in a few cases, breeder chow in them. Some of the cages without nestlets appeared to have been recently changed. As you may recall, I recently requested that all breeder cages not be changed if they contain newborn pups, that all breeder cages be given breeder chow, and that all breeder cages be given several cotton nestlets when changed. I made these requests to both maximize litter size and reduce cannibalization of newborn pups, which has been a problem for some time. While a certain amount of cannibalism is normal and unavoidable, I have noticed evidence in many of my breeder cages (ie: blood, viscera, and partially cannibalized pup corpses) of widespread dam cannibalization. In fact, despite having numerous cages devoted to breeding some strains of mice, I barely get several pups per month that survive to adulthood because most are neonatally cannibalized, likely because the dams are stressed by cage changes and a lack of nesting material. This is having a significant impact on my research, as it dramatically reduces the number of mice I'm able to work with. Today I noticed evidence of recent cannibalization in several breeding cages (neither of which had additional cotton nestlets in them when discovered).
The recent outbreak of MHV has taken its toll on my ability to perform mouse work, and now that our room is cleared, I was hoping to have access to as many mice as possible. I believe that the requests I have made will significantly reduce the cannibalism problem which has plagued our colony since I was able to resume breeding following clearance of MHV from our room. Would you please ensure that the requests for special care of our breeder cages are being rigorously implemented?
The facility manager was very apologetic and assured me she would have a staff meeting to address these issues and they would be handled. God willing, in three weeks I will have mice to complete my thesis with. This still means another nine months of work, which is where suspension of my "Daily Whatever" posts comes in.
Those of you who are suffering alongside me in the trenches of scientific research funded by the elusive NIH RO1 grant know that thanks to our current president's hatred of all things involving "stem cells," the entire NIH budget has been drastically cut and everyone is having a hard time getting grants to fund their labs. My PI (boss), who is extremely well-regarded in his field and who writes a fucking textbook on the subject to prove it, has experienced the trials of securing funding as much as more junior faculty who aren't endowed full professors at an Ivy League school. Therefore, our lab has four students on one grant, which is too many. You would think that in the interest of supporting research which will yield papers and grant money and thus enhance its reputation, Columbia would use its considerable financial resources to help out, but you would think wrong. Columbia doesn't give a fuck because they haven't gotten any bad press for it, and that's the only thing which spurs this institution to do ANYTHING. That is why, as anonymous hater pointed out, Columbia is the laughingstock of the Ivy League. Instead, my department's brilliant solution to our lab funding problem is to get rid of students. Because three of the students on my PI's grant (including myself) are sixth years, they are graduating all of us ASAP.
You might think, "But Razzy, you complain about grad school all the time! Don't you want to get Ph.ake doctored like tomorrow?" While I absolutely would love to move on to my post-doctoral life, I don't want to do it before I publish my dope-ass mouse model. Unlike anonymous, I don't believe that I have "failed" at my project because another group published a model before I did. Other models have been published similar to that one which have many drawbacks. The specific paper anonymous cites shows viral RNA replication in mice, but virtually no production of infectious virus. I consider production of infectious virus critical to a useful model, because what's the point of using an animal model if it doesn't mimic the human disease? When you get a cold, you shed tons of infectious virus out your nose. That's how the damn disease is transmitted. I probably could have demonstrated production of negative strand RNA two years ago and published it, but my standards for a model require production of infectious virus by infected mice. The fact that Bartlett et al published their subpar model in a demi-Nature journal only goes to show that there is a substantial need for this kind of experimental system, and the rhinovirologist community will take what they can get. That's why when I complete my experiments, my paper is going to rule everybody's face off. However, I won't be able to do that if I have to graduate in December, a prospect that was sprung on me last week.
I have worked it out with my department to graduate in February, which should give me enough time to complete my experiments, submit one or two papers for publication, defend a thesis I am proud of, and get a real job. This timeline is feasible, but mandates working extremely long hours. I have worked hard throughout graduate school and have experienced many setbacks due to events beyond my control. However, now that I'm on the homestretch, I don't want to give the haters any ammunition suggesting that I didn't overcome all of it with some hot publications and the respect of my scientific peers. Therefore, if I'm going to get up at 5 a.m. to write for four hours every day, it's going to have to be papers rather than blog posts. I'm still going to do my best to write at least one thing every day, but I just can't justify researching and writing (usually copiously) about a minimum of two topics. I love writing this blog and I am sad that I have to dial it back a little, but sometimes you have to prioritize your life, and what you want to do takes a backseat to what you need to do. I need to blind some bitches with science for the next six months, so please be patient with my reduced output of Razzification during that time. I promise at the end, you'll have some SWEET peer-reviewed journal articles to read! TRUST!
Labels: excuses, grad school bullshit, Razzification, Razzy Haters, science, viruses rule
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: okay, FINE, it's "The Hills" season 4!
Name: "The Hills" season 4
DOB: August 18, 2008
Occupation: making vacuous stupidity hot with all the kids
Hometown: West Hollywood, California
Current residence: sad but true, my TV (but only during Olympics commercials, I swear!)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I need to stop fighting it. I need to just suck it up and accept the fact that I watch "The Hills" to the extent that it merits a tag on my website, I have a photo album on my Facebook page entitled "Whitney and Audrina," and I have openly discussed the fact that I think Justin "Bobby" Brescia is hot despite the fact that he's an indigent philandering hairdresser. Besides, I'm outed. Not only have I admitted to watching "The Hills" here, my friend JerseyGirl sent an update to the Smith Alumnae Quarterly advising all our fellow Smithies that watching said shitshow is our primary activity next to "Beverly Hills, 90210" parties. I'm so unfortunately afflicted with this "Hills" addiction that I actually have pathetic text exchanges such as this with my girlfriends:
JerseyGirl: Hills season premiere on at ten!Razzy: Why does it have to be during olympics?JerseyGirl: Dewd u must turn it on. It is so dumb its awesomeRazzy: I'm watchn some right now. LC is soooo dumb. And she looks 45!JerseyGirl: So dumb. Justin bobby is SO HOTRazzy: I wld hit that so hard for real.
Wait! That's not even the ONLY text conversation I had about this trash last night! There's more!
CorporateCard: Steamy steamy justin bobby. Boo lo! 1st commercial break was almost 10 min! superbowl for teens!Razzy: Truly! I gotta watch the rerun. I'm olympics crazy.
Never mind my feeble protests about watching the Olympics. At every commercial and/or pointless Bob Costas monologue, I flipped over to MTV to drink in the knuckle-dragging antics of Lauren "LC" Conrad, Audrina Patridge, Whitney Post, LC's bitchy childhood friend Lo, and LC's archnemesis and the McCain supporter I wish didn't exist, Heidi Montag. This season, LC goes on a date with a guy who's main distinguishing feature is that he drinks beer (which, as indicated by her eye rolls, LC clearly thinks is VERY bourgeoisie), Whitney continues to apply her slow mental faculties to challenging "stylist" jobs (ie: folding jeans) at the People's Revolution, Heidi's sister moves into her and Spencer's apartment, and Lo and Audrina exchange a lot of cunty mean-mugs.
I honestly have no idea why I watch this crap, much less LIKE watching it. Typical dialogue on "The Hills" involves one character asking, "So, like, what are you, you know, like, doing tonight?" as she either folds a pair of jeans, pokes bemusedly with her index fingers at her shiny MacBook, or pretends to eat a grapefruit. The respondent will then answer, "So, like, you know...yeah." Another common story is that one character will go to a club, run into another character she hates, and they will exchange bitchy glares and/or bitch incomprehensibly at each other in the ladies room or the parking lot. Does any of it make sense? No more than Brody Jenner's star turn on "The Hills" resulting in his getting his own spin-off reality competition entitled (not joking) "Bromance," in which he auditions a new best friend to replace his now "dude-vorced" ex-buddy Spencer Pratt. I guess Brody felt that fucking LC (and making frequent appearances on his Reggie (Get in My) Bush-polluting stepsister Kim Kardashian's reality show) was a better strategy than Spencer's ambitious ploy to achieve media notoriety making Nicole Richie eat. Again, I have no idea why I watch this or LIKE watching it. But I do.
That said, I totally watched most of last night's episode, if only to watch Justin Bobby's hot ass show up at Audrina's party. Unfortunately, Justin Bobby seems to have truly mended his ways, and I might lose interest if he doesn't start belching, stealing Brody Jenner's drinks, and making out with other girls in front of Audrina soon. Frankly, Lo is starting to become my favorite character, if only because she looked out at Audrina's guests, sighed, and said, "Well, I guess we'll just have to try to enjoy what we've got here" while Audrina blinked vacantly and suffered anguish trying to rack her weak mental capabilities for a comeback that never came. If Lo's going to bring bitchery like that every episode, I'm signing up for her team. I may as well just give in. "The Hills" fucking rules!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, media whores, sluts, The Hills
Daily Douchebag: Olympic gymsnatchtits judges
DOB: ???
Occupation: hating on America
Hometown: Australia, Russia, and China
Current residence: National Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: Anyone who watched last night's uneven bars Olympic ladies gymsnatchtits individual medal competition knows that my barely legal girlfriend Nastia Liukin got screwed harder than me at an open bar nerd convention full of MIT graduates. She tied cheating thirteen-year-old He Kexin and wound up coming out behind courtesy of the new scoring system's wack tiebreaking rules. The undeservedly low score the Australian judge gave to Nastia fucked up her average, and she found herself with yet another silver medal in spite of earning the same score as her pubescent competition. That's right...they tied, and Nastia still lost. Thanks to the perpetually eloquent and informative Bela Karolyi ranting to Bob Costas about the scoring system afterward, this was due to "incompetence at the judging."
Similar issues with unfairly low scores posted by the Chinese and Russian judges screwed Alicia Sacramone out of a medal in the vaulting and almost fucked Nastia in the all-around. At least I expect the Russians and Chinese to play dirty when it comes to posting unfair gymsnatchtits scores reflecting an anti-American bias. Why the Australian judges have jumped enthusiastically into hating on Team USA is beyond me, but according to Valeri Liukin it's been this way for the past three world championships. Now I have a new reason not to go to Australia. Apart from the fact that Foster's sucks and they have horrifying spiders, they have American-screwing gymsnatchtits judges who are at best inexcusably inept and at worst flagrantly complicit in rigging the Chinese gold haul. Nastia was robbed, and to use the immortal words of Bev Niner's resident morally condescending slut Kelly Taylor, Australia is never again.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, Olympics, ranting
Monday, August 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: lame Olympic sports
DOB: various
Occupation: stealing NBC TV time from sports I actually care about and/or Bela Karolyi hating on China
Hometown: various
Current residence: Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I haven't shut up about the Olympics, partly because I just like writing shamelessly jingoistic trash talk about how America rules and China sucks, and partly because I enjoy the spectacle of world-class athletes demonstrating their abilities in the world's premier international sporting competition. Unfortunately, some of the specific sports involved don't really do it for me. While I'm always good for a few ardent cries of "U! S! A!" and diplomatic sentiments like "That's what you get for hating freedom, you pinko human rights violators!" and "SUCK ON IT, FOREIGNERS!," I find that my nationalistic chauvinism loses a little steam while trying to get excited about shit like archery or judo.
I certainly respect the fact that the abilities of the athletes competing in these sports are light years beyond mine, and I don't mean to diminish their prowess at their sports. Obviously if I were to attempt to outfence the Olympic rapier team I'd be summarily stabbed. However, a lot of these sports are a total snorefest to watch. I get so bored that I even forget to root obnoxiously for America, and that's when I know it's time to change the channel and watch a rerun of "Project Runway" or get a little hot Mark Schlereth action on "Inside the NFL."
Archery: If this sport included more Lord of the Rings-type stuff, like dudes climbing up the sides of massive elephants to shoot entire squadrons of wild-eyed Haradrim from the southlands prior to taking out the elephant itself and sliding down its trunk while it collapses in its death throes as a final display of showmanship and finesse, I'd be more into it. Unfortunately, Olympic archery is just a bunch of balding dudes standing around shooting at a target. They don't even do that arrow-splitting thing that Robin Hood used to pull off. Unless archery is changed to involve either something like that, elves from Middle Earth, or Ted Nugent stalking a bunch of elk around some remote Michigan forest, I want no part of it.
Canoeing/Flatwater Kayaking: The only thing more lame than doing competitive rowing is doing it in a CANOE. Unless your name is Meriwether Lewis or William Clark, I am not going to be impressed by any feats of canoeing. Call me when you get involved with a real sport that Boy Scouts don't get merit badges for learning.
Equestrian: Having long gotten over the horse-craziness many girls experience during their prepubescent years, I could give a fuck about how well bitches in jodhpurs can trot a horse around a stable. They need to add a rodeo event or an actual RACE or something to spice up the snorefest that is dressage.
Fencing: I'd normally love anything that involves sabers and swordfighting, because those things remind me of pirates. Unfortunately, fencing doesn't involve wearing plumed hats, carrying a blunderbuss for show, or doing any sort of swashbuckling. Instead, fencing appears to be about wearing an outfit that looks like a cross between Hannibal Lecter's anti-cannibalism muzzle and Bender from "Futurama," and they always stop people from actually stabbing each other. That kind of takes all the fun out of swordfighting, if you ask me.
Judo: It's like wrestling, except MORE boring. I don't care if this is a martial art; two seconds of judo make me wish I were at a tax seminar.
Marathon: On Saturday, I went out drinking, and while I waited for my companion in this laudable pursuit to arrive, I was watching the Olympics on the bar TV. The women's marathon was on. I got bored after about thirty seconds, when I realized there was still another three fucking hours of endurance running. I appreciate the physical feat of running 26.2 miles in just a few short hours, but that shit is not fun to watch. Showing the last minute of the race and briefing me about anyone who threw up or died en route to the finish line is perfectly adequate marathon coverage as far as I'm concerned. I got so bored with what LL Cool Jew referred to as "SNORE...running in panties." I turned my attention to the preseason Jets-Redskins game, which wasn't so much a football game as a testament to how many of the (pitiful) Jets fans in attendance already forked over cash for "Jet Favre" jerseys. You know you're in trouble when two of your favorite sporting events are on TV (Olympics and NFL football), and the overriding thought in your mind is "I hope the camera pans over to the Redskins bench so I can feast my eyes on Seahawks legend Jim Zorn."
Rhythmic gymnastics: I am staunchly opposed to any "sport" that involves ribbon twirling. The only reason to watch gymsnatchtits is watching freakishly built children perform feats of agility and athleticism that seem physically impossible. Replacing said impressive gymnastic moves with balls and sashes defeats the entire purpose.
Rowing: This should be fun, because it's a race, but I always hated crew people. My high school ex-girlfriend rowed crew, and not only was she a really shitty girlfriend, I hung out with her "crew people" in college once. They ROYALLY sucked on account of attending Harvard, and being snobs about being on the fucking Harvard sculling team or whatever. The best part of that night was watching my ex-girlfriend puke into a Harvard Coop bag while getting shafted by the dumb bitch she was drunk dialing. Karmic reward is sweet, but crew is not. The Smith crew lesbians weren't any better. They were always whining about those of us engaged in the sports of alcoholism and revelry about how they had to get up at 5 a.m. for practice. I would tell them to either fuck off and go stay at their girlfriends' lame dorm where people drink a nip peach schnapps once a month (and that's on a crazy month) and are generally more silent than a room full of deaf-mutes, or tell them they should have thought about the fact they were in college before they joined the crew team. Sometimes I'd blow a lungful of Parliament Light smoke in their faces because I'm an asshole like that. Crew sucks.
Sailing: I guess the WASPs who don't get into tennis have to have some sport to compete in. Nonetheless, I can't get behind any "sport" that involves wearing Nautica clothes and topsiders.
Soccer: Soccer (which I refuse to and will NEVER refer to as "football") is the stupidest sport on earth, and it is a testament to America's greatness that most of us here in the United States of Asskickery could give two shits about it. Who needs to get with a sport that is every European's favorite thing? Europe blows.
Shooting: I love guns, so I SHOULD like shooting. However, it's not only a bunch of shooting at targets rather than game trophies, terrorists, or mutant aliens, the commentators always get really hung up on how to do use guns safely. I can sum that up in one sentence: IT'S CALLED A SAFETY, morons. Don't point the gun at your competitor when that's off, and voila! Safe gun use. Get over it.
Tae kwon do: Wait, they DON'T actually beat the shit out of each other during a tae kwon do contest? I thought they were supposed to "sweep the leg" and "put him in a body bag," all the while having "no mercy." At least that's what I learned from the Kobra Kai dojo. Unfortunately, real Olympic karate or whatever doesn't involve anything like that, or any ass-kicking at all. It's more about shit like "form." Who cares?
Wrestling: I normally like latently homoerotic sports in which grown, usually aggressively heterosexual men writhe around in singlets, but unless there is trash-talking and some member of the McMahon family involved, I get bored quickly. In "serious" Olympic wrestling, there isn't a whole lot of trash talking save that Swedish guy who renounced his bronze medal and stormed off, and there is virtually NO entrance music. In fact, the only time I've cared about an Olympic wrestler is in this context.
Oh, it's true, it's true. The only reason I cared about Kurt Angle's Olympic gold was they gave him ample cause to continually replay his awesome entrance music circa 2001 and throw a hissy fit about fans who chanted "you suck!" to it in spite of his ascending the medal podium in Atlanta. I mean, come on, his name is Kurt Angle, and what the heck...he won a gold medal and it's around his neck! Olympic wrestling should have more of that hotness.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, NFL football, Olympics, sportsmen
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Bela Karolyi
Name: Béla Károlyi
DOB: September 13, 1942
Occupation: retired Olympic gymsnatchtits coach, NBC analyst,
Hometown: Cluj-Napoca, Romania
Current residence: Houston, Texas
Bela Karolyi on vault judging: 'a total reep off...my heart is breeking for alicia sacaramonee. How you can do this? I am getting eemotional.'LL Cool Jew must already have boarded her flight, because she didn't get back to me. However, JerseyGirl texted me out of nowhere instead:
JerseyGirl: Omg behind the scenes of the hills, justin bobby is smokinWhile an intoxicated catfight between Lauren Conrad and Heidi Montag–ESPECIALLY if the dirty and despicable yet hate-fuckably hot Justin Bobby is somehow involved–sounds compelling, I kept watching the Olympics. I care more about listening to Bela Karolyi excoriate the pro-China, age-faking, score-fixing factions in Olympic gymsnatchtits judging than whether or not Heidi and Spencer leaked LC's interminably boring sex tape because LC was generally a bitch of a roommate and fake best friend. Bela Karolyi is indeed awesome, and he's the hotness, and he's basically every other conjurable superlative.
Razzy: Lol. M watchn olympics but will switch over at commercial
JerseyGirl: Lc and heidi come face to face in season 4 in a drunken fight. It looks amazing. Btdubs bela karolyi–daily dude i wanna hit him
Razzy: zomg bela is awesome
JerseyGirl: Hes the hotness
I don't even care if Bela Karolyi built champion gymnasts in the past with a deft combination of starvation, self-esteem deconstruction, and verbal abuse. I love Bela. I would consider it an honor, a privilege, and a pleasure to be berated by him. I'm sad that gymsnatchtit competition is almost over, because I will miss watching him roar nonsensically in either exuberance or rage at Bob Costas about Team USA versus Team China. Bela doesn't give a fuck, and thinks nothing of call China "arrogant cheaters" or calling the Chinese and Russian judges "inexcusable" and "abominable" on international TV from Beijing, probably while the Olympics thought police hover around dying to pull the plug. In fact, he peppers excited shouts of "GOOD GIRL!" praising the gymnasts of Team USA with his rants about the Olympic powers that be, all the while waving his hands and shaking his fists like he's making a propaganda speech on behalf of his own local politburo in the People's Republic of Bela Karolyi Awesomeness.
In case you have been living under a rock or you're one of those losers who doesn't watch TV and thus haven't yet witnessed Bela in action, feast your eyes. He's like a Transylvanian bear on crack with a giant, industrial broom mustache, and he rules harder than Nicolae Ceaucescu back in the days before Bela defected to the good old U.S. of A.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Olympics, sportsmen, The Hills
Friday, August 15, 2008
Can you REALLY disappear, John Mayer? WOULD YOU PLEASE???
I just saw on Dlisted that, in light of his recent breakup with legendary beauty (and by "legendary beauty" I mean "leathery, shrewish, bitter old maid") Jennifer Aniston, the world's most prominent douchebag has come down with a sudden case of the camera shies and is thus walking around in a selection of exceptionally stupid outfits to hide his precious, tear-streaked feminine face from those annoying paparazzi who keep his ass relevant. Ungrateful loser. I bet he complains all the time about how he never gets any privacy when he's trying to pick out ugly distressed t-shirts at his local American Apparel, even though when he first started doing "the Rachel" his media whore ass was making out with her in every hotel swimming pool he came across.
The other day, he was running around looking like some sort of hipster Jawa, as if he were out scavenging scrap metal and other mechanical detritus to stick in his extra strappy North Face backpack. Maybe pretending to be hard at work in the intergalactic space robot salvage business quells the excruciating pain eating away at his newly single heart. I mean, it's not like he could alternatively go write a cloying, shitty song about it.
As if that creepy outfit wasn't bad enough, he then decided his next clever, inconspicuous disguise will hearken back to his favorite childhood Halloween costume of all time. I can just imagine young Johnny Mayer dressed up as Batman shoving handfuls of fun-sized Snickers into his caterwauling yap and telling everyone through his nasty mouthful of nougat that when he grows up, he's going to be a famous sensitive-boy "rock star" so he can wear this outfit every day.
Why am I not surprised that John Mayer has a fucking man purse–excuse me, I meant SATCHEL–to go with every dumb douchebag hoodie he has? I bet tomorrow when he's snapped skulking around shrouded in a hooded sweatshirt festooned with skulls or Japanese characters or whatever kind of douchey Urban Outfitters-type pattern he rolls in, he'll be rocking some coordinated backpack or messenger bag so he has a convenient place to store his iPhone and Vitamin Water.
Since John Mayer wants so badly to be invisible, I would like to encourage him in this pursuit. Every time I see him, he pisses me off just by EXISTING. Between his staunch defending of Pete Wentz's artistic integrity, his taste in women, his supposedly giant weiner, his ill-advised attempts at comedy, and his insufferable blog that constantly harps on how shallow and pathetic everyone in the world EXCEPT him is (when not documenting his attempts at making "the perfect watermelon margarita" and sucking harder than me on a first date at Grand Theft Auto 4). I have about eight hours' worth of discussion material relating to the topic of John Mayer hatred, and that's not even scratching the surface of his contributions to the genre of adult contemporary–I mean "pussified rock"–music. However, since his carefully apportioned hoodie disguises aren't working, I would suggest that it's time for him to take more drastic measures. I'm thinking something like this:
Unfortunately, if I saw any of these costumes walking down the street, their inherent douchebaggery would make me immediately think "John Mayer costume," thus defeating the purpose entirely. Therefore I can simply beg John Mayer to recognize what a scourge he is to our society and just kill himself. Sure, a pro-suicide position is one I don't usually take, but in this case I must make an exception for the sake of my fellow man. Please, John Mayer, sacrifice yourself so that humanity may continue unmolested by your abject fucktardery!
Labels: John Mayer sucks, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nastia Liukin
DOB: October 30, 1989
Occupation: Olympic women's all-around gold medalist
Hometown: Plano, Texas via Moscow, Russia
Current residence: the gold medal podium, Beijing, China
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: This bitch needs no introduction. My current barely legal crush Nastia took home Olympic gold last night to my utter delight. I was worried for a minute that the 12-year-old Chinese bitch was going to overtake Nastia thanks to some bullshit scoring decisions but finally those pinko cheaters got their comeuppance. I knew those ugly pink barrettes all of Team China seems to favor with their Maoist red uniforms would eventually be their undoing. They need to take some style tips from Nastia and realize that the pink-red combo is only acceptable at your medal ceremony.
I love Nastia because not only does she have the best name in the world, she really is the American dream. Like many who have fled from behind the Iron Curtain, her family settled in Texas, became ex-Stalinist white trash, and perpetuated their gymsnatchtits dynasty. Bred from two world class Soviet gymnasts, she has spent her entire life training to rule everyone's faces off at these Olympics. Her family's story is a true immigrant success story and I'm pretty sure that if she were alive to see it, Emma Lazarus would be shouting "U! S! A! U! S! A!" about the Liukins.
I also applaud Nastia for somehow managing to avoid getting the frightening prepubescent body that many gymnasts in the Bela Karolyi school of competitive eating disorders, and actually has some T&A. Okay, she has A cups, but in her profession that's the equivalent of a Dolly Parton-sized rack. Alright, and admittedly her face is a little wonky too, but she's still my favorite hot piece of trash on Team USA. Even if, as my friend Morrissey'sHair noted yesterday, Alicia Sacramone "has that nasty, New England slut look about her, like she just rolled out of Danvers, Mass looking for a quick bang" and scores points with me by punching out Brown frat boys, I still have to declare my allegiance to Nastia. She might seem like a stuck-up bitch sometimes (Bob Costas refers to this as her "elegance"), but I know how that quiet type does it. Those quiet ones who act like they shit L'Occitane face lotion are usually the dirtiest pervs on the planet, and I'm willing to bet Nastia is no exception. For all those people who are like, "You're gross, Razzy, she's a child!" Well, she's 18, straight-up legal in every state, and I'm ONLY eleven years her senior. I've certainly banged people a decade or more my senior, and look where it's gotten me! I could teach Nastia a thing or two about living up to all the jokes pertaining to her first name, as well as show her a new meaning for her Hollywood debut, Jeff Bridges's magnum opus Stick It!
I'm so excited about Nastia's gold medal that I don't even feel cranky enough to douchebag anybody today. YAY for Nastia! USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, Olympics, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Sleeping with the enemy
I have always wondered when I take random pictures of me doing standard Razzified shit with my dogs why I always regard Chingy! with such an obvious expression of "what the fuck, asshole?!" I thought it was always due to his Too $hort-esque tendencies, or his cacophagic inclinations, or his starfish pant-stamping, or his overall rePUGnancy. However, now I've realized that this has taken a decidedly nationalistic tone. Why do I look so annoyed in the below picture? Because Chingy! is not on board with freedom.
Chingy! is not rooting for team USA. LL Cool Jew and I were texting yesterday about the TOTALLY CHEATING Chinese gymsnatchtits team, and she suggested that my morbidly obese dog is rooting for the enemy. In fairness, Pugs were sort of appropriated by the Dutch sometime around the end of the Dark Ages as far as breeding goes, but I'm willing to work with the "Chingy! is an asshole, and thus is rooting for the nation that originally bred his assholish, incorrigibly lazy kind" a millenium ago. Sure, Pugs have occupied a place in the footnotes of European history. Some Pug saved William of Orange's life from assassins in the sixteenth century and Empress Josephine used Pugs to deliver secret notes to Napoleon, but I assume these outlying events are entirely stochastic. Relying on a Pug to bark a warning is more ill-advised than relying on Al Gore to admit that freon-containing appliances are critical to a sound energy policy. Chingy! cannot be relied upon to do anything besides snore loudly, sleep constantly, eat indigent feces, and sneeze contemptuously when rebuked. I am hardly surprised that he is rooting for our national Olympic enemy China, especially when considering that the Chinese are known to violate human rights, suppress free speech, and cheat at gymsnatchtits.
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Last night, this "Chongay is pro-Team China" theory gained some credence when this asshole not only woke from his typical deep slumber to wag his question mark for "March of the Volunteers." The idea that Chingy! would volunteer for any type of people's work is laughable; however, he apparently likes the pinko tunes enough to actually work his tail a bit to the beat. He also had this look on his face when I asked, "Hey CHONGAY, what do you think about the fact that your Olympic women's gymsnatchtits team won by faking their ages?"
CHONGAY CHONG, Team USA!!
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Last night, this "Chongay is pro-Team China" theory gained some credence when this asshole not only woke from his typical deep slumber to wag his question mark for "March of the Volunteers." The idea that Chingy! would volunteer for any type of people's work is laughable; however, he apparently likes the pinko tunes enough to actually work his tail a bit to the beat. He also had this look on his face when I asked, "Hey CHONGAY, what do you think about the fact that your Olympic women's gymsnatchtits team won by faking their ages?"
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, Olympics, United States of Asskickery
Daily Douchebag: dumb dyke-alike lesbians offended by me
DOB: looked to me like around 1984
Occupation: getting offended
Hometown: probably somewhere in the Midwest that allowed them to develop such massive chips on their shoulders
Current residence: I'm going to take a wild guess and say Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York
Douchebaggery: The other night, I attended my usual Tuesday night bar trivia (where my team took the top prize for the second week in a row–HOLLA!). Next to our barside table, a pair of lesbians had bellied up to play trivia with the bartender's assistance. I took one look at these bitches and knew I wasn't going to like them. I obviously had no problem with the fact that they're gay, as I've got my own reserved seat at the sushi bar. I knew I wouldn't like them because of the type of lesbian they both were, which I know well from Smith College. They both looked like they were having a Hoegaarden to prefunk for a Dolores O'Riordan impersonator convention and were regarding everyone with the same insufferably condescending expression, as if any moment they were about to break out with a furious passive-voice tirade about everyone else's heteronormative ideals. They were the kind of dykes who act like they invented lesbianism, and treat their queerness as their sole distinguishing trait. They were so into clubbing everyone over the head with their politicized muff-diving inclinations that their trivia team was even cleverly named "The Lesbians."
After destroying The Lesbians at trivia, we turned our attention to Olympic women's gymsnatchtits. I started going off about my desire to do the nasty with Nastia Liukin, and discussed her merits versus LL Cool Jew's designated crush Alicia Sacramone. When these ladies both fucked up their floor routines, I said something like, "Don't worry, ladies, you can find comfort by sticking your faces in each other's twats back at the athlete's village." At this point, Lesbian #1 leaned over to me and demanded, "Excuse me, but are you a lesbian?" I could tell that she was about to call me a homophobe if I answered in the negative.
"I'm bisexual," I said bitchily. "WHY?"
Lesbian #1 didn't give any answer for demanding to know my sexual orientation prior to bitching at me for making assumptions about Alicia Sacramone's pussy-eating predilections. Instead, she turned to Lesbian #2 and exchanged a flurry of scathing whispers. They were probably thrown, as on one hand, they couldn't call me a homophobe since I just freely admitted that I eat at the clam bake. On the other, they probably didn't consider me a wholly legitimate gay person since I allow evil men to pollute my sacred female space with their patriarchal penises. I shrugged and went back to addressing the Sapphic sexual practices of Team USA, after underscoring my bisexuality by making out with CuteClothes for their viewing pleasure (and my personal gratification...CuteClothes is a hot-ass bitch.)
The Lesbians settled their tab and prepared to leave. As they were stomping out, Lesbian #2 said (while walking quickly past) to me, "Just so you know, what you were saying was, like, really offensive." Then she tried to keep walking.
Oh no the bitch didn't just try to give me an ambulatory dressing-down! I wasn't having that, so I said, "No, HOLD UP, bitch. You don't get to just walk away from that. That offends ME. What the fuck business do you have being offended by what I'm saying? I wasn't even talking to you!"
"You can't just talk about whether those women are lesbians. You have no right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar!"
I don't have the right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar? Last time I checked the Bill of Rights, there weren't any exceptions to the First Amendment specifying that, especially considering these twats wore their lesbianism like a damn power suit. "That's pretty awesome coming from a bitch who named her trivia team 'The Lesbians'!" I retorted.
"That's different," she said. "We were being funny!"
"And I wasn't?" Sha right. I'm way funnier than these humorless cunts. "I see...only YOU and your dyke-alike are allowed to talk about gay chicks in this 'straight bar.' That makes a lot of sense. You're not only dumb, you're also a hypocrite! That offends ME."
This didn't go over well. Probably my use of the word "dyke," pointing out her hypocrisy, and implying that she wasn't smart all combined to make this professionally angry bitch REALLY mad. She unleashed a torrent of roundabout "like, that is so wrong" gender politics babble, and eventually implied that since I was sitting at a table of three other heterosexual chicks and one dude, I was not in a position to discuss the taboo topic of hot girl-on-girl.
"Really? A table full of straight girls, huh?" I turned to my table. "Ladies, raise your hand if you are gay." I thrust my hand in the air, and was joined in asserting my enthusiasm for pussy by CuteClothes and Twathopper. "See, I have more lesbians in my entourage than you do. I guess nobody told us we aren't allowed to mention it here in this 'straight bar.'"
Lesbian #2 couldn't argue with our numbers, so she instead changed the subject to the fact that she thinks I'm a chauvinist pig. "You were talking about those women like OBJECTS. Sexuality is a very powerful and complex blah blah blah blah...and you were just, like, CHEAPENING it. That's just what men do!"
I was about to snap back that I love men and she would hardly be the first to point out my many masculine qualities, but at that point the bartender told us to break it up. "Alright, Sappho, back to Brooklyn with you," I said. "We can continue this next week if you deign to leave the Isle of Lesbos for these straighter pastures so we can kick your flat ass in trivia again."
"Oh, WE'LL BE BACK!" she shot at me, and grabbed her girlfriend and stormed out.
"I look forward to it!" I shouted after her. I really do look forward to her return. I used to get in arguments with uppity women's studies lesbians who needed to be taken down a peg all the time back at Smith, and it's been too long since I've had a good old-fashioned Razzy Crude Cussout versus Queer Studies Gibberish smackdown. Please come back to the Joshua Tree next Tuesday so I can own you again, Tegan and Sara!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
FUCK! I'm LATE!
Sorry, dudes, but it's 10 a.m. and I just woke up. My alarm didn't go off, but even if it had, I am miserably hung over. This is very bad news for the story about the two really angry identical lesbians who confronted me after bar trivia night to give me a drive-by scolding about being "offensive" regarding statements I made as to the fuckability of Alicia Sacramone and Nastia Liukin. Apparently I'm not supposed to speculate on which Olympic athletes are gay at "a straight bar." I rebutted this argument by making out with a hot Wellesley alumna. Ultimately, I was out until 3 a.m. last night, and though I didn't intend to stay out that late, I did to drown my sorrows about China winning the gold in the team gymsnatchtits finals. So my apologies about my lack of productivity today. I'll be back in regular form tomorrow. XOBJBS!
Labels: alcoholism, excuses
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Misty May-Treanor
DOB: July 30, 1977
Occupation: U.S. Olympic beach volleyball player
Hometown: Costa Mesa, California
Current residence: Chaoyang Park Beach Volleyball Grounds, Beijing, China
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I have never cared much for volleyball, indoor or outdoor. As much as I should be able to get behind any sport that requires either kneepads or bikinis, I usually find it pretty boring. This may be due to my childhood years of sucking harder than a homeless woman in Tacoma with no meth at CYO volleyball due to my mediocre talent at the sport (and calling my abilities "mediocre" is being generous). However, when Olympics time rolls around, I get into beach volleyball. There is one reason for my interest, and her name is Misty May-Treanor.
Not only is this chick totally awesome at beach volleyball (I mean, I guess...she and her partner Kerri Walsh always win and are defending their gold medal), but she also is totally hot. Her prowess at the sport is impressive, but more impressive is what she did the other day when President Bush showed up to watch team May-Treanor/Walsh gear up to kick some foreigner ass. After showing her skills off for Dubya, she decided to keep with beach volleyball tradition and offer her ass for him to tap. "Mr. President...want to?" she asked.
In yet another of the many discredits to President Bush's name, he declined and just ran his hand across her lower back. Nonetheless, I have to give props to Misty for trying. Not everyone can claim that they tried to get the (inept) leader of the free world to spank them. She can rest assured that in four years, President McCain will probably be glad to give that hard posterior a firm smack. Even though Bush isn't being a very good American, thank God Misty May-Treanor is making up for it by standing up for one of our most hallowed traditions: slapping a hot chick's fine ass. She is a true patriot and an exemplary representative of the most freedom-loving nation in all the world. I think she's also going to win a gold medal or something, too. Go Misty May-Treanor! USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, Olympics, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Daily Douchebag: Tori Spelling AGAIN
DOB: May 16, 1973
Occupation: reality TV whore, deluded former Donna Martin
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: The gossip internets informed me yesterday that Tori Spelling pulled out of the new "90210" series yesterday in a huff because she was going to make less money per episode than fellow OG Bev Niner alums Jennie Garth and Shannen Doherty. Apparently Tori feels that her dedication to theatercraft (primarily Lifetime movies and a series of appalling reality shows detailing her marriage to that fug Canadian guy) since turning in her Donna Martin midriff-baring baby tees merits more than $10-20K per appearance. She demanded the $30-50K per episode that Kelly Taylor and Brenda Walsh are getting and the producers refused, so she told them something along the lines of, "Have it your way, CW. Let's just see how your little '90210' remake fares without Donna Martin uglying up every episode. Those new kids aren't going to be shopping at Now Wear This anytime soon! Dean and I are just going to take our hellspawn and film more of the unwatchable minutiae of our stomach-churning married life for the Oxygen network! That'll learn you!"
Good thinking, Tori. I'm sure that the loathsome "Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood" is going to be WAY better for your career. Undoubtedly the handful of obese Bichon Frise-stroking fags and gunt-laden housewives watching Oxygen are a far more powerful demographic than the "Gossip Girl" audience. And I'm sure that myself and all my Bev Niner-obsessed friends will really, really miss not having to listen to Donna Martin blaming her constant abject stupidity on dyslexia or vacillate about losing her virginity. I'm already composing an angry missive to the brass at CW, except said correspondence is mainly complaining that they didn't get rid of your ridiculous ass soon enough.
I would be on board with a Donna Martin return on one condition: her character only was involved in absurd situations like the unintentionally hilarious scene where she is discovered by a model scout in Paris thanks to her seductive pastry-eating skills.
While I did shout "Je suis American, and if you don't like it, too bad!" at Alain Bernard the other night during the Olympics, providing accidental comedy was Tori Spelling's primary contribution to the original Bev Niner. Unless Donna Martin was going to return to wear physically restricting prom dresses and Halloween costumes, get drunk off three sips of champagne at prom, catch David Silver banging Babyface's manager in a limo, get slapped around by her loser boyfriend Ray Pruit in Palm Springs, almost die in a brush fire trying to rescue a baby deer, save herself from certain rape by Garrett Slant by calling David Silver "Dave," deliver weather forecasts that match her belly shirt, fight off her stalker Evan Potter by feigning a passionate kiss, and develop a pain pill-and-merlot addiction, I am not interested in seeing any more of Donna Martin. When Donna wasn't doing something completely ludicrous and idiotic, she was basically a waste of space. I would way rather see Kelly Taylor resume her slutty boyfriend-stealing ways and Brenda Walsh open a can of hysterically self-righteous bitchery all over anyone who crosses her path, be it the aforementioned boyfriend-stealing Kelly Taylor or a group of researchers studying sudden infant death syndrome in cats.
Tori Spelling needs a reality check as to her status in the pantheon of Bev Niner greatness. There's a reason why she was always toward the bottom of the credits. In the first few seasons, she even came behind Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman in terms of billing. She only moved up the ranks when the likes of Joe E. Tata, Vincent Young, and Daniel Cosgrove joined the cast. Poorly played, Tori. Poorly played, indeed.
Labels: Bev Niner, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, sluts, TV
Monday, August 11, 2008
You may kiss the bride, or get pissed at the dickhead guest
On Saturday, I attended the wedding for two of my grad school buddies. They met in lab and are crazily in love and the event was generally a joyous one. Even a cynical old slut like myself is touched when two people are clearly devoted to each other and make it official. Besides, their wedding was not only perfect for them, it was a fun party on a lovely sunset cruise around Manhattan. One of their labmates served as their minister, they danced to Guns 'n' Roses, and there was an open bar with top shelf liquor. I enjoyed 99.9995% of the wedding.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
Labels: assholes, grad school bullshit, holy fucking matrimony, NYC, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Michael Phelps
DOB: June 30, 1985
Occupation: king of the swimming pool
Hometown: Baltimore, Maryland
Current residence: Olympic Village, Beijing, China
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I normally find Michael Phelps annoying. He seems like the kind of guy who gives people a lot of "I'm Michael Phelps, fellate me" attitude when the camera's off. Sure, he has the reputation of being a really nice guy, but I'm not buying it. People said that about Apolo Anton Ohno, too, and I can tell that guy is likewise a grade A prick to be around. It's always the supposedly really nice people who are actually cocks in their personal lives. I also hate that Michael Phelps looks like the bastard child that Archie Manning abandoned at birth.
So, for the next two weeks I'm changing my usual "sha, Michael Phelps" attitude to a "GO KICK SOME FOREIGN ASS, MICHAEL PHELPS!" attitude. USA! U! S! A!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Olympics, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Daily Douchebag: Alain Bernard
DOB: May 1, 1983
Occupation: Olympic swimmer, un-backing-up shit talker
Hometown: Aubagne, France
Current residence: the ignonimy of defeat, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I have spent so much time rooting against China that I've forgotten that there are plenty of other countries whose asses I'd like America to summarily kick, as well. One of the leaders among my most-hated foreign nations is France. Apart from producing some solid wine, cheese, pepper steak, baguettes, inspiration for my boy Chopin to compose some of his greatest piano works, and part of the backdrop for my favorite Hemingway novel, France leads Europe in the garnering of my disdain. I can't stand the snotty, entitled attitude that the French are famous for, and nothing brings out my inner uncouth asshole redneck American like a Frenchman waxing on about how culturally superior his country is. One time, back when I lived in Seattle, I was at this pretentious bar with a couple of my coworkers and was making fun of how another colleague used to show off his high school French–or at least his over-the-top French accent–whenever he called one of our collaborators in France.
"And zen, Docteur So-and-So, yeu will spectratype ze T cells, oui? J'adore yeur deft analeesees of our samples, cheri," I was saying, while my coworkers laughed. The guy sitting next to us at the bar overheard, and butted in.
"I am Française," he said bitchily. "Zis ees exactly why we zink Americaines are steupeed eediots." He gave me a look like, "DAMN, I just owned you, Americaine swine!" Bad idea.
"Oh, really? Well, if you don't like it, none of us will stop you from going back to France. In fact, that would be preferable, since that way we won't have to endure your rude butting in to our conversation."
The French guy just glared at me and rolled his eyes. I wasn't having it. Time to break out my favorite anti-French insult. It's clichéd, but like blue jeans, Coca-Cola, or blow jobs, it never goes out of style.
"Don't give me that 'oh, you crude American' eye roll, Pierre. If it weren't for us, your ass would be speaking German right now." At that point the French guy decided he'd had enough, and promptly began ignoring us. I started telling obnoxious French jokes loudly to my coworker friends, who were enjoying the whole spectacle. "Why are French tanks equipped with rearview mirrors? So they can see the battle," I said. French guy settled his tab and left shortly thereafter. I win again and as usual!
Anyway, very few things satisfy me more than putting an overconfident Frenchman in his place, and I'm glad the U.S. men's Olympic swimming team could do just that. Apparently, one of the few things France is good at besides insufferable condescension is men's swimming. As I would expect from an athlete originating in the country where the word "douche" originated, one of the guys from Team France decided to dismissively shit-talk Team USA's prospects in the 4x100 m relay. "The Americans?" said French swimmer Alain Bernard. "We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." That's some serious dick-swinging being done by a lead singer-of-Coldplay-looking man who has to rely on a shark tattoo to butch himself up.
Alain should have taken some lessons from other incidences of "we will crush you" shit-talking that backfired hard. Once Roy Williams of the Detroit Lions foolishly vowed to crush the Chicago Bears after they opened the season losing 9-6 to the Seahawks, after adding, "it was stupid how close we were to putting forty points on the board." The vaunted 2006 Lions went on to lose 34-6 to Chicago. In another incident, then-Seahawks tight-end Jerramy Stevens made some comments prior to Super Bowl XL, saying, "It's going to be a sad day when (Jerome Bettis) doesn't walk off the field with that trophy." To this day, I blame Jerramy Stevens's hubris almost as much as I blame Bill Leavy's heavily Steeler-biased officiating for a day that lives in infamy with 12th Men everywhere. There are countless instances of some player firing off his mouth and then getting spanked for it when it matters, and if Alain Bernard weren't so busy looking down his elitist French nose at Team USA, he might have considered that prior to giving our guys some motivation.
Not only did Team USA take the gold in the 4x100 relay, they completely owned Alain Bernard and his compatriots in the process. It appeared that going into the final 100 meters, France was winning. Luckily Jason Lezak wasn't about to let Alain Bernard or the French-held world record in this event get in his way. He made up America's lost time and kicked Alain Bernard's ass in the final 50 meters and set a world record for relay split swimming in the process. To add extra sweetness to the victory, the record Lezak broke was Bernard's. Suck on that, Alain Bernard and France. USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, Olympics, overcompensation, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Friday, August 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Brett Favre AGAIN
DOB: October 10, 1969
Occupation: brand spanking OLD New York Jets quarterback
Hometown: Kiln, Mississippi
Current residence: house hunting somewhere around the Meadowlands
Douchebaggery: While I loved some of the plot twists in the whole sordid scandal concerning Brett Favre's unretirement (like the Machiavellian schemes of the Minnesota Vikings to flirt with Brett Favre on the sly using a Packers-issued cell phone and the Packers' subsequent desperate attempts to give him a $20 million pension if only he'd stay back home on his tractor), I am incredibly unhappy with the ultimate outcome. I'm tired of Brett Favre. I'm tired of hearing commentators rave about his "gunslinger mentality" and his stupid consecutive starting record. I was so glad last March when made my entire spring by announcing that he was leaving professional football amidst a deluge of man tears. I was weeping tears of joy.
Unfortunately, my delirious ecstasy regarding the No Favre League was fleeting. Brett changed his mind within a few short months, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up to THIS on the covers (front and back) of my local papers:
The media frenzy of reporting on every last bit of minutiae concerned Favre's initiation into Gang Green is nothing, however, compared to the marketing onslaught already in full force. I found THIS in my e-mail inbox within two hours of the announcement that he was coming to the Meadowlands, primarily to annoy me but also apparently to replace the perenially dismal Chad Pennington and supposedly save the Jets from yet another year of crushing failure.
Since when have I been a Jets fan? I can't recall a single time I've given a rat's ass about the Jets except to curse Laveranues Coles viciously with every breath two years ago when he proved to be one of the most lackluster receivers ever to start for my usually awesome Fantasy team. Since 99.99999% of my NFLshop.com purchases have been Seahawks paraphernalia, I can only assume that NFLshop.com thought I would be interested because my mailing address is in New York. Then again, I know that NFLshop.com really needs to step up its consumer targeting practices, since they had the audacity to send me a catalog of Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl XL commemorative regalia. I wouldn't even wipe my ass with a Terrible Towel, and the one pair of Steelers underwear I own (purchased on sale a good 5 years prior to the travesty occurring at Ford Field in 2006) is strictly reserved for period use only. I don't want to see anything from those assholes in my inbox, save maybe an announcement declaring that neon green Deion Branch receiver gloves are half off.
Brett Favre's only been here one day, and already I'm over it. I am praying to St. Sebastian (patron saint of athletes) that Brett Favre breaks his pinky in week 1 and spends the rest of the season being crucified Chad Pennington style by the New York media for being a pussy.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, NFL football, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Olympics
DOB: August 8, 2008
Occupation: the most-watched trash on my TV for two weeks
Hometown: Beijing, China
Current residence: Beijing, China and NBC
Why I Want to Hit the Olympics: I love the Olympics. I'm always down for a dick-swinging competition, especially one upon which rides the bragging rights of nations. I'm also always down for any excuse to shout "USA! U! S! A!" and trash other countries. I'm particularly excited for this Olympics, because we finally have some international frienemies to hate on the way we used to do with the Soviets. I'm going to break out the Toby Keith and get my America on. Besides, if I really want to stick it to those pinko Chinese, I'm not going to get all self-righteous, turn off the TV, bitch about human rights, and break out my made in China Free Tibet flag. No, like any true American patriot, I'm going to order a pizza, crack a cold beer, and watch our women's gymnastics team smote their commie ruin upon the uneven bars, and Michael Phelps leer dully down like a long-lost Manning brother at their swimmers from the top of the gold medal podium. You know why we won the Cold War? It had less to do with a four decade-long nuclear pissing contest than our routine beating down the Eastern Bloc like O.J. Simpson with a mouthy blonde girlfriend. Freedom makes for better athletes, and I have no doubt now that our unfettered internet access, legalized big Caesar-sized dogs, slightly less polluted cities, lack of prisoner organ harvesting, and ubiquitous corporate fast food franchises will result in a veritable Fort Knox of Olympic gold for team U! S! A!
And to celebrate our impending dominance, I'm skipping the artfaggy Opening Ceremonies to drink some Miller Lite with lesbians, criticize the government, and generally participate in some shameless pro-American jingoism. USA! U! S! A!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Olympics, United States of Asskickery
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Mike Lowry had "so many bitches"?
As long as I'm on the subject of Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter and his ridiculousness today, I might as well bring up something that mystifies me almost as much as his fetish for female police officers making siren sounds during coitus. One of the many singles from the sublime Tha Carter III is a song called "A Milli." In the third verse of this jam, Lil' Wayne is talking about his success with the ladies, and he says, "I got so many bitches, I'm like Mike Lowry."
Mike Lowry? Did he really say "Mike Lowry"? As in the toady, bug-eyed Rodney Dangerfield-esque former Washington state Governor Mike Lowry? THAT Mike Lowry?
No, it can't be. While there may be something somewhat endearing about the way Mike Lowry joins fellow former Washington state Governor Gary Locke in laughing at a hilarious story being enacted by yet another former Washington state Governor Booth Gardner, I don't see him having sufficient charm to merit having "so many bitches" that it garners Tha Carter's admiration.
A quick internets search determined that Will Smith's character in the Bad Boys movies is named "Mike Lowrey." While I would actually prefer to hang out with a former governor of the great Evergreen State and Thornton Mellon doppelganger than Will Smith's annoying closet homo Scientologist ass, I do seem to recall something about "Mike Lowrey" being a womanizer in those particular Michael Bay orgies of explosions. When making such a comparison, I assume that Lil' Wayne is more likely to know the details about sluts from Bad Boys than elderly liberal governors from the P-N-Dub. Then again, Governor Mike Lowry chose not to run for a second gubernatorial term amidst a sexual harassment scandal in which he was accused of talking dirty to and fondling his deputy press secretary, so he did at least make a half-assed attempt at ho-running. Maybe Lil' Wayne is just showing respect to all the Mike Lowries who have flashed their player's cards at one point or another in their careers, and hoping to follow in their pussy-stacking footsteps.
Mike Lowry? Did he really say "Mike Lowry"? As in the toady, bug-eyed Rodney Dangerfield-esque former Washington state Governor Mike Lowry? THAT Mike Lowry?
Labels: Lil' Wayne, P-N-Dub, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Like a cop car
The other day, J-Sexy and I were IMing about this girl I was jocking, and I quoted Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's masterpiece "Buy You a Drank" with respect to my seduction strategy. This got our chat going off on a whole other tangent concerning Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's masterpiece about cop-suspect sex, "Mrs. Officer."
Razzy: i'm totally wearing that gray and black dress
Razzy: like a straight up SLIZUT
J-Sexy: hahaha
J-Sexy: that is a great dress
J-Sexy: wear heels too
Razzy:: i'll buy her a drank
Razzy: maybe we'll be in the bed like ooo ooo ooo ooo
J-Sexy: we-o-we-o-we
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: jinx
Razzy:: all she want me to do is fuck the police
J-Sexy: i am actually lol-ling
Razzy: i am too!
J-Sexy: i like lil wayne
Razzy: me too
J-Sexy: he is super funny
Razzy: i just turned that song on
Razzy: what an awesome song
J-Sexy: it is so silly
J-Sexy: my god
J-Sexy: amazing
Razzy: lil wayne and kells both love to make their women make car noises
J-Sexy: it's so odd
Razzy: i have personally never simulated a vehicle in the throes of passion
Razzy: i certainly have never emulated a cop car
Razzy: although maybe i should
J-Sexy: i routinely make a honking noise
J-Sexy: the men love it
Razzy: are you serious???
J-Sexy: of course not!
J-Sexy: ewwww
Razzy: i am seriously LOLing hard
Razzy: imagining you honking at your boyfriend!
J-Sexy: that would be so retarded
Razzy: rodney king baby, beat it like a cop
Razzy: i think the next time i get laid
Razzy: i'm going to make some vehicular noises
J-Sexy: do it!!
J-Sexy: you have to
Razzy: and see how it goes over
Razzy: i'll do a kells/lil wayne medley
Razzy: we-o we-o wee
Razzy: toot toot beep beep
J-Sexy: haha
J-Sexy: man, if the dude doesn't know this kinda music he will think that you are nuts
Razzy: which will be even more hilarious
J-Sexy: but if he does, what a laugh!
J-Sexy: either way it will be hilarious
J-Sexy: toot toot
Razzy: beep beep
J-Sexy: i dare you to
Razzy: i'm going to!
The last time I got laid, I forgot to get automotive on the lucky fella's ass while we were getting down. However, the next time I get some action, I am definitely going to break out the literal car talk and see how that works out. I have to make sure the lights are on so I can see the other party's expression, which I only assume will be a combination of shock, confusion, and amusement. Then the person will probably be like, "Why the hell are you making a siren noise?" and I'll be like, "DUH, you're making my body sing like a cop car!" Unless, of course, due to some miracle of fate the next visitor to my boudoir is either R. Kelly or Lil' Wayne, in which case they'll probably congratulate themselves on a job well done.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, Lil' Wayne, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
This just in: I'm never getting a job, say would-be law students
I discovered several links to my site from a board called AutoAdmit.com, which touts itself as "the most prestigious law school admissions discussion board in the world." A user identified as CollegeFrat starts off the Razzy-bashing by posting a bunch of relevant links and writing on the topic "Columbia Grad Student Posts Naked Pics on her Blog: Bash this..."
LOL at this chick. She is going to graduate from graduate school at 30 next year. There are dozens of pictures of her breasts online, never to be deleted. Who the fuck will hire this chick? The internet has gone too far.
Ruh roh. I never considered the possibility that I might not be able to delete titty pics from my own website. Furthermore, perhaps it's the lingering delusion from attending a bastion of radical feminism like Smith College that women might actually be judged by their professional accomplishments, but I was unaware that my breasts would preclude me from gainful employment when I finally get Ph.ake doctored and hobble away from Columbia at the crotchety old age of 30. I mean, I may have mad skills at virology, but...come on, ask a wannabe law student! Employers aren't looking for highly educated people with very specific and unique technical skills training with professors sufficiently recognized in their field to have authored the top-selling textbook on the subject. I have breasts and PEOPLE HAVE SEEN THEM. Whatever you do, do NOT hire me! I am, however, comforted in the knowledge that while I may be sitting around rendered unemployable by my exposed and wizened breasts, I at least have the distinction of taking the internet "too far." Because prior to my groundbreaking flash moves, the internet was a clusterfuck of conservative prudishness with no shocking or potentially offensive material on it whatsoever. At least I can rest easy in the knowledge that my fun bags have shaken the internets to its straight-laced core.
Just when I was starting to get depressed about a future of being the only McDonald's drive-thru jockey with an Ivy League doctorate, a heroic poster named Free Marvin Harrison! stepped in to defend my honor...sort of:
There are a lot of weird, nerdy girls in graduate school who are into freaky sex and don't care who knows. (I'm referring to her exhibitionist streak here, not her desire to have her coochie eaten.)I don't think she'll have trouble finding a job at an academic or government lab.
Whew, that's a relief. I'm glad that even though this person is apparently a fan of the detestable Indianapolis Colts and is presumably seeking law school admission to ensure that Marvin Harrison doesn't have to suffer the injustice of answering law enforcement questions about shootings that occurred on a highway near a bar he owns in Philly, he is defending my prospects for a career as an academic researcher (AKA perpetual scholar-serf) or a lowly civil servant! I'm relieved to know that my weird nerdiness or proclivity for "freaky sex" like showing off my hot rack (not to be confused with non-freaky sex like cunnilingus) won't get in the way. Unfortunately, the would-be attorney motivated by Marvin Harrison's cooperation with a police investigation is then rebutted by a couple posters named Fogo de LMAO and superLAZYdood suggesting that I was fucked long before I ever went "Girls Gone Wild," since Columbia is a shitshow of an institution with no standards (which, sadly, I and probably every other disgruntled, miserable Columbia grad student would have to concede is a fair point).
With such vigorous debate going on about my career prospects, I decided to consult with someone who has actually one-upped these bright-eyed, cocksure future lawyers. ElCyd is starting law school in about a month as well as the founder of my Facebook fan club, so she knows a thing or ten thousand about both gaining admission to barristry training camp AND the content of my website. Therefore, I sent her the link and we discussed the validity of the opinions of a bunch of 21-year-old recent college graduates sitting around talking about boobies on a law school admissions board.
Razzy: i love when people are like "YOU'LL NEVER GET A JOB BECAUSE PEOPLE HAVE SEEN YOUR BOOBS!"Well, there you have it. Somehow I think I'll manage to overcome the fact that pictures of my breasts are on the internets and get a legitimate job in science. I have that validation from a smart, hot bitch with more law school admission credentials than my internets detractors that my career isn't yet completely fucked. This complements my existing personal experience-based knowledge (from back in the olden days before grad school when I had a real job with a business card and a cubicle and a phone extension and everything) that you can pull some absolutely RIDICULOUS bullshit in the workplace and still get promotions, raises, and highly complimentary recommendations for graduate school.
ElCyd: lol
ElCyd: dude, ppl at my firm had pictures of themselves smoking pot
Razzy: i mean, people don't care
Razzy: and i don't want to work for the ones that do
ElCyd: srsly
ElCyd: not in academia
Razzy: or even in industry!
Razzy: they just care that you get the job done
ElCyd: and when you cure the common cold, no one will care
Razzy: exax
ElCyd: in fact, they'll be your biggest fans!
Since my PI just informed me that I'll be going by Dr. Razzy by next spring, I can now start my hunt for a real job (or at least a real postdoc) without fretting about predictions of professional doom cast by the sage oracles aspiring to be lawyers. Whew.
Labels: ElCyd, internet domination, nudity, Razzy Haters
I know I've heard a lot of tracks, but Twelve Play's what I want
Thanks to Google alerts, I was advised yesterday that, to my extreme excitement, an album by a certain Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly has leaked onto the internets in its entirety. I pray to the gods of R&B that this is a harbinger of TP Fourth Quarter bumping Tha Carter III from its lofty position as the almost constantly played collection of jams on my iTunes. I've been waiting for this day since LL Cool Jew and I heard the R-uh in R&B announce it as he bade adieu after blessing us with his mackadelic nightspot realness for two and a half hours on R. Kelly's Double Up tour.
01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.
03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.
04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.
06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.
08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).
12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.
Because I'm approaching the ancient age of thirty, I have no idea how to find secretly leaked TP Fourth Quarter tracks available for illegal download. I don't know how these torrent doohickeys all the kids are using work! Sadly, I thus can't follow the instructions given by Kells in "Like a Real Freak" and "go up to your internet and download me, get my computer love right off the screen." I assume they don't make leaked mp3's that are compatible with the dual cassette boom box technology us old crones are familiar with. What I do know is that Kells better hurry up and release this damn album, because I am fiending HARD for it! I want him to make like he did for TP-2.com and put it on me like drawers, because Lord knows I can hang since he's horny as hell tonight. I'm ready for him to either sex my body like what, like diamonds in the cut, or alternatively tear my shit out, new millenium style!
In the absence of the actual songs, at least the internets have advised me what the titles of the songs are. Since, with the exception of the exquisite ode to sex at the beauty salon, "Hair Braider" and the contemplative slow jam "Playas Get Lonely," I haven't heard any of these songs, I'm going to have to rely on my imagination to get a taste of what Kells cooked up in the Chocolate Factory this time around.
01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.
02. Hair Braider: I've already discussed "Hair Braider" at length, but it never gets old. I'd like to meet this fabled hair stylist. Luckily, Kells's website gives me the opportunity to check out the stylings of many women who have their hair comb grease ready hoping the Pied Piper will roll through and rain on them like confetti.
03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.
04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.
05. At the Same Time: Please, please, PLEASE let this be another ode to threesomes. I don't know how Kells can top descriptions of his adventures in group sex with two chicks who both got dizzy legs like "one massage my toes while one braid my hair," "the way they took me down like a forty," or "three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper," but I have faith that he can.
06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.
07. Might Be Mine: At least Kells can write a song acknowledging that his penchant for both riding bareback and associating with loose women can result in some difficult paternity situations.
08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
09. Go Low: Based on the title alone, I'm going to go ahead and call club banger on this one.
10. Freaky Sensation: If there were ever a song with the potential for some true Kells ridiculousness, this is it. I predict he'll address topics along the lines than "you say you want to take first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips," "I got many styles when it comes to sex positions," "I promise it will be painless as we journey to Uranus," and "betcha I can make your body talk to me...all I need is my CD, a bag of weed, and some Cristie."
11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).
12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.
13. Relief: What I'm going to feel when I finally get my hot little computer hands on this damn album! Hurry up and drop it already, R-uh!
Labels: I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Daniel Henry Plant
Name: Daniel Henry Plant
DOB: ???
Occupation: bullshit excuse-employing pedophile
Hometown: the delightful (except by "delightful," I mean "redneck timber industry shithole") log-processing Oregon border town of Longview, Washington
Current residence: Clallam Bay Corrections Facility, Clallam Bay, Washington
Douchebaggery: HotLawyer was going about his daily business of reading Washington State Appellate Court decisions, found this gem, and requested a good old-fashioned douchebagging of the appellant. This appeal was made by one Mr. Daniel Henry Plant, a drunken creep who didn't agree with the jury of his peers that convicted him of first-degree child molestation. His appeal was denied, and to save you the trouble of deciphering the legalese about the case law for the basis of the appeal's failure, I will quickly translate: motherfucker used the most bullshit excuses of all time for trying to fingerbang a six-year-old.
According to the decision, Mr. Plant showed up at his friend's house after killing a few too many wine coolers. The friend agreed to let his wasted ass stay over, and invited him to climb into bed with her and her six-year-old daughter. Instead of quietly passing out in front of a movie, he started trying to convince the friend to fuck him and kept feeling up the little girl. Though the friend kept refusing what I'm sure were incredibly tempting offers of sexual congress, Mr. Plant didn't get the hint. He exposed himself and then, when it became apparent the friend wasn't interested in banging some dude with her daughter in bed with her, he turned his attention to the kid. The mother was alerted that something was up when her daughter told Plant "don't" in a serious manner, and threw back the covers. At that point, Plant withdrew his grabby hands guiltily from the girl's crotch, and the mother threw him out. The daughter then told her mother he'd been diddling her.
The girl explained that he touched her "pee" and that it was both unwelcome and painful. To add an extra shuddering jolt of revulsion, the police chick who investigated the case noticed that all his fingernails were sharpened to a point. As a sexually active adult with a thoroughly broken-in vagina, I can attest that long nails–much less ones intentionally honed into raptor-like talons–cause sufficient ouchiness to render digital action completely miserable and unpleasant. I can only imagine how this must have felt for an innocent six-year-old who had already suffered the misfortune of being molested by one of her brothers. In his defense, Plant first said he confused the kid with her mother, who in his mind was begging to have sex with his Blue Hawaiian-sodden self. When the investigator didn't believe that story, he said that he was just "testing" the kid to see if she had been molested...by molesting her. He told the investigator he was "just being professional," because certainly molesting children is used by law enforcement officials and child psychologists as an excellent litmus test for determining whether or not a child has already been sexually violated by a creepy kid-touching degenerate asshole. He then claimed that, while admittedly a poorly conceived plan to provide some sort of sick counseling to the girl, his judgment was impaired because he was drunk. He also claimed that his defense attorney didn't bring this up at trial, and thus had a legitimate appeal against his conviction.
I've done many ill-conceived things while under the influence. Granted, I can't recall a time when I was drunk on Bartles and Jaymes, but I've still done some pretty crazy and sometimes regrettable things. Nonetheless, I've never committed any kind of sexual assault, much less child molestation, no matter how drunk I got. I certainly never attempted to perform some type of perverted genital examination on the grounds of some mysterious "professional" interest. I call bullshit, and so did the appellate judges. They summarily rejected his appeal and sent him to experience the joys of keenly honed objects poking at his orifices in a Washington state prison. Except from what I understand about penitentiary life, sharpened toothbrush handles are more common than manicures, and the Clallam Bay commissary doesn't stock any fruit-flavored hooch to take the edge off.
I take my hat off to the appeals court for telling Daniel Plant's stank pedophile ass to take his shankings (in whatever form) like a man. Wine coolers, no matter how loathsome a beverage for anyone (much less a man) to be intoxicated on, are not magical juice that give a person a sudden desire to play doctor with a six-year-old. Blaming the eminent Misters Bartles and Jaymes for his own inherent nastiness is unfair and hardly grounds for an appeal. Send that bitch to prison, stick his name on the local Megan's Law list, and leave the Seagram's out of it!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, HotLawyer, kewlness, sexual assault
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: all my Facebook friends coming out of the woodwork
DOB: various
Occupation: congratulating me
Hometown: various
Current residence: the internets
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I spent most of yesterday recovering from my hangover being totally amused on account of the emails I started receiving when "Razzy is now listed as engaged" hit everyone's Facebook news feeds. Several people realized it was a joke and sent me sarcastic congratulations. One of my virology friends even suggested some science-related bands that could play my lesbian wedding. Several others, however, did not and were utterly shocked. A guy who just joined my fantasy football league–who I have never even met but is friends with HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair and has undoubtedly heard about how I'm competing with him for title of their sluttiest friend–emailed me about our football league and added, "Are you engaged? WTF! That's not how players roll." To mitigate his disapproval, I agreed to marry him on Facebook when I break my engagement with Twathopper next week. Even my high school boyfriend frantically Facebook messaged me under the subject heading "you have got to be shitting!," saying "You're getting married? Congratulations!"
I get the feeling that once I start getting constantly in fake relationships, engagements, and marriages on Facebook, the not-really-close friends I have on Facebook are going to catch on that I'm just fucking around with Facebook's obnoxious relationship status news feed updates. However, in the meantime, I am really enjoying the response. First, even people who don't know me well are like, "IS THE WORLD ENDING? YOU are getting married?" As much as I hate to tarnish my reputation as a shameless skank, the truth is that I sometimes date people and just don't mention it here on this blog. I'm not planning on getting married anytime soon if ever, but in real life I'm not 100% trampy slut all the time, and I don't think it's THAT shocking that one day I might settle down, at least enough to fuck one person at a time. I'm a long way from that, but nonetheless it amuses me that my skankery has permeated even the most far-flung corners of my Facebook friend collections.
Anway, if you are my Facebook friend, brace yourself for lots of news feed action about an upcoming string of faux engagements and marriages. And if you refuse to believe that someone could be so cynical as to fake-engage someone on Facebook, Twathopper and I are registering at Home Depot so we might get some free swag out of it. We've got our eyes on a set of hers-and-hers toolbelts and measuring tapes, so if you're pulling for us, that would make a great fake Facebook engagement gift.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Facebook, intentional buffoonery
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my Facebook relationship status
DOB: today
Occupation: fuckery for the sake of it
Hometown: my imagination
Current residence: my Facebook page
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The other night, JerseyGirl finally adjusted her Facebook status to reflect the fact that she broke up with her boyfriend Kodiak. Although it was a mutual breakup, it was still emotionally difficult to get used to the fact that they were no longer a couple and change their profiles accordingly. When JerseyGirl did, it showed up in everybody's news feed, and consequently she started getting a shitload of e-mails demanding to know the details of their separation.
"Dude, it felt like breaking up all over again!" JerseyGirl complained. This ushered in a tirade about Facebook keeping all your friends updated as to your every move. I concluded that I was going to go home and just remove a description of my relationship status altogether, so that in the event it does change, I don't have people pestering me about it. Sure enough, Facebook alerted my friends that I'm "no longer listed as single." I thus came home last night to the following e-mail from my friend Wmania:
From: Wmania (wmania@worlds3rdlargestprfirm.com)To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)Subject: dewdAre you no longer single???Who is the new guy or gal???????????
I laughed out loud. Facebook is really on point when it comes to helping friends stalk one another. Therefore, I decided to change my Facebook status to "engaged" and listed Twathopper as my fiancée. I think from now on I'm going to change my Facebook relationship status weekly just to bring the drama. Next week I'm going to break my engagement to Twathopper and marry JerseyGirl instead. I'm sure she'll get some interesting e-mails when "JerseyGirl and Razzy are now married" shows up in her friends' news feeds so soon after "JerseyGirl and Kodiak are no longer in a relationship" dropped.
And yeah, I know this is a pretty lame "Daily Dude," but last night was bar trivia night (where my team totally took first place), and Becky #1 from "Roseanne" was there. I therefore drank a lot and debated whether or not I should go talk to her (of course I didn't, although we did make one of the guys at our table give her a chair and she thanked us).
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Facebook, intentional buffoonery
Daily Douchebag: Katy Perry
Name: Katheryn Hudson
DOB: October 25, 1984
Occupation: dumbass
Hometown: Santa Barbara, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: When I was visiting my friend LL Cool Jew a while back in New Orleans, we were driving around and there was a commercial on the rap station (which in the Crescent City is basically an all-Lil' Wayne channel). "Let's listen to the teenager station!" she said, and changed the channel. Then that "I Kissed a Girl" song came on the radio. LL Cool Jew stopped compulsively twirling her hair and a look of horror came on her face as she listened to the lyrics.
"You're my experimental game?" LL Cool Jew asked. "Is this for fucking real?"
"Dude, this is like the #1 download on iTunes, and it has been for a while," I said.
"It's not what good girls do? I hope my boyfriend don't mind it?!" LL Cool Jew continued, looking progressively more disgusted. "I didn't know exploitive faux lesbianism was the new rebellion!"
"Go figure, dude," I said. "Thanks to Tila Tequila, all the dumb bitches on MySpace are now aware that making out with chicks is a great way to get guys' attention."
LL Cool Jew continued to shake her head with a look of stern disapproval on her face (thank God she didn't hear Katy Perry's OTHER song, "Ur So Gay"), and cleansed our musical palette by switching back to the Lil' Wayne channel. She's also not the first of my friends to find Katy Perry's ode to dyke-to-be-liked offensive. FalloniusMonk summed it up perfectly. "Enough of this Katy Perry horseshit. This isn't about Chapstick. It's about pussy."
I think that myself and all my friends with an ounce of gayness are deeply annoyed that a former gospel singer like Katy Perry has appropriated lesbianism as some kind of cheap ploy for attention. Although I generally bust on lezzies regularly and act very cavalier about my predilection for some hot girl-on-girl, being (partially) gay is still a struggle sometimes. When I was trying to cope with being a lesbian teenager in Catholic school, I read a lot of (Smith alumna) Sylvia Plath and filled about fifty notebooks with appalling poetry and spent a lot of time crying. I felt like a freak and my psychotic ex-girlfriend did little to make coming to terms with my sexuality any easier. Even as an adult, it took me a long time to admit to being bisexual, and sometimes that is still difficult to explain to people. Hearing Katy Perry sing about it like it's a fucking trucker hat or a vintage t-shirt or some other lame edgy hipster accessory makes me want to smack a bitch for her audacity.
What I think is even more irksome is the fact that all the kiddies have latched onto Katy Perry's "Look at me, I made out with some random chick" schtick like it's some kind of anthem for nonconformist rebellion. An entire generation of Ramones shirt-wearing emo assholes now think that dyking out is tantamount to Manic Panic hair dye or studded belts in terms of showing their boyfriends how fucking original and countercultural they are. Memo to Katy Perry: you are not Kathleen Hanna, and you're not doing lesbians any favors with your bullshit. You are a disingenuous, fake-ass bitch, and you make it harder for those of us who not only like kissing girls, but like fucking them too. Furthermore, you haven't discovered anything new or groundbreaking. You've just popularized what pornographers have known for years. Most guys like watching girls hook up with other girls. It's not novel or unique, and it only serves to teach the knuckle-dragging fucktards who listen to Z100 that it's acceptable to trivialize lesbianism for the sake of obnoxious attention whoredom.
I have no problem with people experimenting sexually, or talking about it. What I do have a problem with is Katy Perry taking decades of struggles for gay rights and reducing it to the MTV audience's equivalent of a wrestling gimmick. Until she writes a song called "I Ate a Pussy," Katy Perry needs to go back to shopping at Hot Topic and shut the fuck up.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, retard rage, sluts
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Anthrax ROCKS
I received the following e-mail from a Razzyphile the other day:
Hey, Razzy
Thank you for the useless bullshit. You are definitely fulfilling a societal need.
I was hoping you could post about the anthrax dude who recently killed himself. You are an expert in the field and we razzyphiles would like to hear from you anything germane to our greater understanding of the entire incident.
PS great rack
I'm a recent law school grad but not admitted so I can't help legally yet.
I am always happy to accommodate requests to drop some science for an interested Razzyphile, particularly one who simultaneously compliments my tits, declares the demand for useless bullshit a "societal need," and might be able to potentially join my crack pro bono legal team of criminal defense and bankruptcy attorneys once he passes the bar exam. I'm also always especially happy to discuss this sexy Gram-positive spore-forming facultative anaerobe:
I've had a real scientific hard-on for Bacillus anthracis since I started studying microbiology. By all accounts, it's a hardy little survivor, which is what makes it a successful pathogen and a relatively efficient biological weapon. The above picture (which looks like a colored transmission electron micrograph) depicts B. anthracis in a state called vegetative growth, which is the type of growth most people imagine bacteria do in an Erlenmeyer flask or a petri dish of culture media. They divide by binary fission until they run out of nutrients or growth conditions become otherwise unfavorable. Most bacteria, like E. coli or Salmonella species, will proceed to die or at least stop dividing under conditions of nutrient deprivation, but B. anthracis can do something special. It can sporulate, meaning it changes into a dormant spore form, until it is again exposed to more favorable growth conditions. This is equivalent to watching TV and taking a nap on the couch when nothing good is on, to conserve your strength and attention for when something awesome like "I Love Money" or a rerun of Red Dawn merits waking up.
B. anthracis spores are extremely durable and can remain viable for decades in the soil, which is why livestock are most often afflicted with anthrax. The spores get from the earth into grazing animals' hair and basically hang out there. If they get into vulnerable areas of skin (via a cut or a mucosal surface like the eye), they germinate, and result in cutaneous anthrax. Generally the humans that get this are farmers, herders, slaughterhouse employees, and other people working with livestock. In both animals and humans, cutaneous anthrax presents as an ulcerating lesion that is usually pretty gross, but usually treatable with antibiotics and not fatal.
It's much more serious when the spores are inhaled and germinate in the lungs. Prior to the Cold War era of state-sponsored bioweapons programs, pulmonary anthrax was known as "Woolsorter's Disease," because it typically affected people who worked in places where animal hides were processed and resulted in high concentrations of airborne spores. However, when World War II came around, a number of countries (including the great U.S. of A., Great Britain, and the Soviet Union) decided to test the feasibility of using aerosolized anthrax spores as a biological weapon. They are naturally a great bioweapon because not only are the spores incredibly hardy, but pulmonary anthrax is not transmissible from person-to-person. Therefore, you can target an enemy efficiently without worrying about causing an epidemic. However, nobody ever used anthrax as a weapon in an actual war, partly because of the lasting effects. Gruinard Island, off the Scottish coast, was used by British scientists to test their anthrax bombs in the hopes of using them against Germany. They stopped developing anthrax as a weapon when they concluded that, while effective at killing their test sheep, the spores were so durable that they would render any German city attacked this way uninhabitable for years afterward. In fact, Gruinard Island was so heavily contaminated that it was quarantined for almost 50 years after these tests, until the Brits got sick of going back to test it all the time and bombed the whole place with 280 metric tons of formaldehyde.
The major world powers then signed a treaty in 1972 pledging not to develop new biological or chemical weapons. Apart from an incident in the Russian city of Sverdlovsk in 1979 when a number of factory workers across the street from a "vaccine plant" died from pulmonary anthrax (the Kremlin attributed the incident to contaminated meat, while Soviet defectors involved in the Soviet bioweapons program attributed it to a filter being left off an exhaust vent), no government has openly developed anthrax as a biological weapon. However, anthrax is still studied from both a basic research and a biodefense perspective, and there are certainly cultures of highly virulent B. anthracis growing in many research facilities all over the world.
For anyone with a basic knowledge of microbiological technique, weaponized anthrax is easy to make. In fact, if you can make homebrewed beer, you can make an anthrax weapon. Anthrax is not like Ebola virus, which is hard to get, harder to culture, and almost impossible to deliver to the intended targets. If you wanted to attack someone with Ebola, you'd have to go to Africa in the midst of an Ebola outbreak, somehow smuggle viable samples of virus through customs (and "samples" in this case would probably consist of bloody vomit or shit from an Ebola patient on ice), find a bunch of monkeys to covertly infect to grow more virus, and try to attack and inject infected tissues from these monkeys into my unfortunate victims since most strains of Ebola (at least the ones that infect humans) don't appear to be airborne. Since Ebola is a virus, it needs a host cell to grow in, and the virus particles alone are not stable for long at room temperature or when exposed to UV radiation (ie: sunlight). You can't just make some powdered Ebola and spray it all over people, and someone is bound to notice if you're running around attacking people with a syringe. There's about fifty ways that such a scheme would fail, and even if you somehow did manage to make some homegrown Ebola, it would be pretty fucking difficult to infect many people before your evil plot was discovered.
Anthrax is much easier to make. I could go dig up soil from a cow pasture in Oklahoma, culture anthrax bacilli from that, grow them in a fermentation tank which can be constructed from materials at my local hardware store, dry the culture, chop it into powder, and mail it to whoever I wanted. Even worse, pulmonary anthrax is usually deadly, because the initial symptoms aren't much different than a chest cold. Unlike other bacteria that cause pneumonia by growing to the point of taking over the lungs, pulmonary anthrax causes respiratory failure via a toxin the bacteria secrete. By the time it becomes apparent that a patient has pulmonary anthrax versus a more common respiratory pathogen, even getting rid of the bacteria with antibiotics doesn't get rid of the toxin, and then it's usually too late. Therefore, it's quite easy for someone with a rudimentary knowledge of microbiology to make a deadly, easily transportable terrorist weapon. Fortunately, most scientists (including myself) aren't looking to break into the bioterrorism business, and have serious ethical problems with biological weapons. Unfortunately, there are some who do not fit that description, which is where the recently suicide-d Dr. Bruce Ivins comes in.
In the wake of those anthrax mail attacks in 2001, the federal government obviously put a lot of effort into determining where that anthrax came from. Like people or any other living organism, anthrax from a lab is genetically distinct from anthrax in a podunk cow pasture somewhere, so the government was able to determine that it came from a virulent lab strain. In fact, it came from a strain that our own government uses to develop anthrax vaccines. That's why the government fucked up royally by running a colossally inept investigation of Dr. Steven Hatfill, the wrong anthrax scientist, who just collected a $5 million settlement from the federal government for the ruin it wrought on his career and his not-a-terrorist reputation.
As it turns out, it was more likely Dr. Bruce Ivins, who killed himself last week when he discovered that he was going to be indicted on capital murder charges for being the actual anthrax mailer. Dr. Ivins was involved in all sorts of sketchy activity, including renting post office boxes under assumed names, using his lab after-hours (although as a grad student, that seems like a perfectly normal workday in the slave labor culture of academic research), having a number of unreported anthrax spills, threatening to kill co-workers, frightening his shrink into getting a restraining order against him, and being strangely obsessed with the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority at Princeton. He was also apparently a loner and a dick.
While anyone has reason to be skeptical of the FBI's largely circumstantial case against the late Dr. Ivins given their total shitshow of an investigation into the now-exonerated Dr. Hatfill, I can state from personal experience that science has been known to harbor some disturbed people that remind me of Dr. Ivins. Without specifically referring to anyone in particular, a person with a need to dominate, threaten, and harass his colleagues, has a troublesome and obsessive relationship with women, does not respond to reprimands or psychological treatment, and takes no personal responsibility for his actions is not unprecedented in the field of microbiology. Unfortunately, these kinds of mentally unstable people can simultaneously be good enough at their jobs to get access to dangerous pathogens, and sometimes the underlying craziness isn't recognized until it's too late.
Even worse, this personality type can sometimes combine the monstrous need to kill innocent people via anthrax with a desire for personal gain. Because these people are Ph.D scientists, they are obviously intelligent, and can sometimes engineer a situation to benefit financially from their own reprehensible crimes. For example, a person might be able to get away with being a scary, abusive, potentially violent asshole by threatening lawsuits or otherwise manipulating the legal system to get what they want along with a substantial cash award. In Dr. Ivins's case, his numerous patent claims over anthrax vaccine technology would provide a significant financial motive to create a nationwide panic about attacks with weaponized anthrax. Currently, the anthrax vaccine approved for use in the U.S. is primarily reserved for military personnel and the odd first-responder. If everyone in the country suddenly became hysterical over the prospect of a large-scale anthrax attack, the demand for a vaccine would increase logarithmically. Dr. Ivins stood to make millions of dollars personally from this kind of nationwide terror, and that can only be icing on the cake for acting out on his reprehensible misanthropic impulses.
Now, many people are probably wondering whether or not they should be afraid of future anthrax attacks since it's so easy to grow and distribute as a lethal bioweapon. I would say no. Sure, the possibility exists. So does the possibility of a flu pandemic as serious as the Spanish flu of 1918 that killed as many as 100 million people by some estimations. So does the possibility of some terrorist getting their hands on one of the few poorly secured smallpox samples, of an airborne strain of Ebola emerging, of all bacteria developing multiple antibiotic resistance, and so on. The Russians alone have a whole arsenal of Cold War-era biological weapons that could be procured on the black market and released, but I'm not laying awake worrying about dying from a terrorist attack of weaponized Soviet tularemia or glanders. The microbiological world is full of nasty (and fascinating) pathogens, and there are plenty of nasty human beings who would gladly facilitate their assault on us. However, I find it more productive to worry about the infectious problems we already have to contend with than the ones that may or may not decimate our civilization. I think it's much more practical and sensible to worry about getting HIV when I have incautious drunk sex with a fellow New York City resident than to fret that there's a slight chance some lunatic spiked my cable bill with anthrax spores. Hell, I'm even more worried that I might get herpes! I dodged that bullet one time when I ALMOST had unprotected sex with a guy who then advised me that he had it (because he is a decent and ENTIRELY admirable human being), and 20% of adults have the herp. As a microbiologist, I'd advise you all to think more about the scourges we already face than the hypothetical ones that might be.
Labels: correspondence, crime and punishment, epidemic geekery, nerd alert, Razzyphiles, science, terror, viruses rule
Daily Douchebag: Richard Cooey
DOB: 1967?
Occupation: death row inmate
Hometown: Akron, Ohio
Current residence: Southern Ohio Correctional Facility, Lucasville, Ohio
Douchebaggery: By all accounts, Richard Cooey's offenses go beyond mere douchebaggery to utter reprehensibility. In 1986, he was drinking beer with some high school buddies and dropping basketball-sized chunks of concrete off a freeway overpass onto random cars. When one of these concrete chunks disabled a car driven by two female students, this Larry the Cable Guy doppelganger and his fellow Bad Samaritans offered them assistance. Instead of a ride for help, Richard and one of his pals drove the women to a secluded area, took turns raping them, and then, when Richard used his friend's name by asking him to "put on the Bad Company tape" (because "Rock and Roll Fantasy" is apparently a great jam for committing rape at knifepoint), they murdered their victims by strangling and stabbing them. Richard was convicted and sentenced to death, and since then he's been squeezing every last drop of time out of the appellate process.
While his crimes are reason enough to warrant my total and eternal disdain, I further loathe Richard Cooey for his latest attempt to avoid the needle. Specifically, he's claiming that he's too fucking FAT to be executed! Apparently, his morbid obesity makes it difficult to find a vein, and this will violate his Eighth Amendment rights. I disagree with the death penalty, and apart from my philosophical issues regarding our judicial system's right to take a person's life no matter how reprehensible their crimes, I can't fathom how it's fair to execute a mentally retarded person but NOT some fat asshole. It's not like some person with diminished capacity can change, but a porky motherfucker like Richard Cooey can certainly be forced onto a damn treadmill and issued two Slim-Fasts and a sensible dinner from the prison mess.
How does one get fat in prison anyway? I've seen "Oz" and those MSNBC "Lockdown" shows. If there's one thing that prisons always have, it's a well-equipped weight room. Apparently Richard just sat on his progressively expanding ass during death row exercise hour, and stuffed his face at the Ohio taxpayers' expense. Now he's just as fat as many of his law-abiding fellow Ohioans, and is going to evade what their state considers justice because of his unabashed gluttony. In fact, if his sentence is commuted to life in prison, the people of Ohio will be paying his undoubtedly astronomical medical bills for the next however many years of his life.
I've gotten some shit in the past for being "size-ist." In fact, after I berated some Smith bitch for her obnoxious "big, beautiful blog," she went so far as to remove it from the internets altogether (the domain has since turned into a gateway to chubby chasing porn sites). The only time I can recall I've ever changed my mind about fucking a guy in the middle of sex was when I suddenly sobered up and realized that he was morbidly obese, and I haven't banged a truly fat dude since. Fat people just piss me off, because at the end of the day, they can do something about their condition, yet I'm the one who needs to amend my life to work around their personal choice. I don't like being told that I'm a discriminatory asshole because I don't like accommodating the slow motherfuckers waddling slowly up the subway stairs in front of me, or because I hate it when someone's cellulite rolls spill over my armrest into my airline seat, or because I resent having to wait at my corner bodega while a dude argues with the deli guy about why it costs more to put an additional half-pound of Boar's Head ham on his sandwich. I know that fat people are human beings too. They're LAZY human beings who would rather everyone else go out of their way to accommodate their choice not to make a few relatively simple lifestyle choices, and I reserve my right to be annoyed at their space-occupying, slowness, and lack of sex appeal.
Therefore, I don't give a damn if anyone thinks I'm insensitive, boorish, or "size-ist" for hating an entirely loathsome rapist murderer trying to avoid justice via obesity. If the prison doctor can't find a vein on Richard Cooley, I say fry his fat ass instead.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Hip-Hop Magician
DOB: ???
Occupation: who the celebrities call for their kids' birthday parties
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Because who doesn't want a "hip-hop magician" that all the celebrities hire for their kids' birthday parties? I certainly do, even though I'm not sure what "celebrities" these are. Somehow I can't really see Donald Trump, Kimora Lee Simmons, or Madonna being swayed by his ads (which are usually on during "I Love Money" and other similar trashtastic Vh1 reality shows), but I'd settle for hiring any "hip-hop" celebrity magician/clown who brings a magic show, balloon animals, games, a popcorn maker, a cotton candy machine, and a bouncy castle to all of his gigs. That's assuredly much better than what magicians usually bring, which if Criss Angel is any indication, includes trucker hats, body jewelry from Hot Topic, a soundtrack composed solely of Korn, Linkin Park, and Drowning Pool songs, and an insufferable sense of condescending superiority that is supposed to pass as mysterious intrigue. Frankly, I'm tempted to call 718-892-0760 just to see if I can afford his rates for my thesis defense party next year. That would be a welcome departure from the usual cheap champagne and Saigon Grill takeout selection that typically mark a grad student's passage from academic serfdom to a real job. I dare you not to want Uncle Majic to demonstrate his arts at your next special occasion after watching his video:
AD WIZARDS: Hip Hop Magician
As it turns out, I was wrong about the celebrities he's been hired by. I went to hiphopmagician.com and it turns out Kimora Lee Simmons DID book him for her kids' birthday party! He's also performed for the likes of Alan Houston, Wendy Williams, and Treach, as well as warmed up crowds for Mike Epps, Chris Rock, and Dave Chappelle. He claims that "the only thing that separates me from David Blaine is a few thousand dollars." I would argue that he's also separated from David Blaine by accomplishing a feat of illusion that no other magician has yet done: a mere glance at him doesn't make me hate him and wish for his violent death, as is the case with Mr. Blaine and his contemporaries in faux magical bullshit. In fact, even more miraculous and amazing is the fact that I actually LIKE the hip-hop magician and experience feelings of wanting him to perform for me rather than explode in a freak balloon animal accident. I'm not a celebrity, and I don't have kids, but nonetheless I want to call him for my birthday party anyway.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, magick is bullshit, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Monday, August 04, 2008
Makaveli in this
The other day I was hanging out with FalloniusMonk and we were talking about our usual nerdtastic selection of topics (ie: history, classical literature, office politics, and lesbian sex), when she suddenly got very excited and said, "Oh my God, DUDE, you have to see this!"
She dove into her hipster bag and whipped out a book. It was a copy of Niccolo Machiavelli's The Prince.
"Uh, dude, did you take a history class in high school? Because I've read that," I said. "Several times, in fact."
"NO, dude, I know you've read it. Look at the fucking picture on the front!"
At first I was like, "What? It's just the usual Penguin Classics appropriation of some random Botticelli portrait or something." For a minute I felt like I was playing some European history-oriented Renaissance painting version of Erotic Photo Hunt. Then FalloniusMonk shouted "WEST SIIIIIDE!" and I instantly realized what was going on. I've seen this hand gesture before:
Now I know why Tupac was so into calling himself "Makaveli" and frankly, why he probably picked up his first copy of The Prince from the prison library in his first place. Certainly the Westside Connection's designs on world domination are in keeping with Machiavelli's political theories, although I certainly wonder these days how O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson is going to accomplish that lofty goal via films like Are We There Yet? I can't really see it, but maybe it's how he reconciled the question as to whether it is better for a leader to be loved or feared. He's feared by studio gangstas, police, and Jerry Heller, and loved by children under the age of twelve. It's not really what springs to mind when I think of the word "Machiavellian," but I guess it works.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, librophilia, nerd alert, rap
Twathopper dodges an ugly fake-lesbian bullet
My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has had a terrible time meeting decent girls, and initially I attributed this to her fishing in the most stagnant, appalling of all online dating sites: nerve.com. This has netted her boring cupcake-baking marathon bloggers, cancer-faking professional babysitters, and militant lesbians into feigned lactation play. However, she's asked me a million times about how she's supposed to meet "normal" lesbians if NOT on the internets, because it's not like there's a bunch of girls running around the bars with signs reading "Hello, My Name is Lesbian." Her visits to lesbian bars have been disastrous. First, she went to Cattyshack with a straight couple, and "straight-up cereally bugged" and fled when a cute girl approached her. Then, I told her that maybe it would be better if she didn't have an audience, and took her to Cubby Hole with me. I assured her I wouldn't be all "let's watch Twathopper hit on girls" because I would be too busy hitting on girls myself, and at the very least she could follow my lead. Unfortunately, both our trips to the Cubby Hole ended badly. The first started off promising, with me chatting up a couple semi-hot chicks about "The L Word" (which I've never seen, and which normally would make me roll my eyes and say "how predictable," but I can bullshit about lesbian chic to set a good example and possibly get laid myself), but ultimately turned frightening and resulted in a terrified escape from a pushy bulldyke who locked me in her sights and proceeded to assault me with Jamba Juice giftcards. The second time was after Pride, where, while I was being invited to join some skank at an orgy-at-sea, Twathopper was feeling sad and depressed. I declined the offer to join a bacchanal on the Hudson and took my little apprentice home for pizza and Bev Niner.
Therefore, I told Twathopper that if the bar scene isn't going to work for her, she has to meet lesbians the same way everyone else meets people: through friends, at parties, at work, at work events, or wherever else you might be able to socially network in life. "Don't you know any lesbians?" she asked. "You did go to Smith College!"
"Yes, of course I know lesbians, dude," I said. "The problem is, they're all coupled up! You know how the lezzies roll. Most of the time it's first date, then cohabitate."
I spent a while racking my brain trying to think of some hot single lesbians who Twathopper hadn't already met, and couldn't think of any. I figured it couldn't hurt to throw out a wide net, so I asked another dude I was friends with at the time. I used to call him DanRubin on this site, but he was really mean to me and no longer deserves a Bev Niner-based Razzy name. Since I think he's a total fucking asshole because he hurt my feelings, made me cry, and inspired my breaking out some old lesbian poetry, I'm going to instead refer to him as "Minuteman." Not only did he go to UMass, but this is an accurate description of his manly prowess or lack thereof in the bedroom. At the time, however, he and I were still friends and we were IM-ing, and considering he was always trying to have threesomes (and failing, since I know from experience that a fella needs more than three thrusts' worth of stamina to please one woman, much less two), I thought he might at least know some ladies who had considered the idea of banging a girl. At any rate, I figured it didn't hurt to ask:
Razzy: dude do you know any cute lesbians who are looking to be set up on a date?
Minuteman: nope
Razzy: doh
Minuteman: i know a kinda geeky girl who's curious to experiment with girls
Razzy: hmmm
Razzy: this is not for me by the way
Razzy: my lesbian trainee is having trouble meeting other lesbians
Razzy: is that the girl you were trying to have a threesome with?
Minuteman: yeah
Minuteman: she was down but the other girl chickened out
Razzy: loser
Razzy: well my friend loves tori amos and solstice-ass shit like that
Razzy: she just came out as a lesbian
Razzy: but she has yet to close the deal
Razzy: i have given her advice and advice and advice
Razzy: i even instructed her step-by-step on "how-to" perform oral on a chick
Razzy: but she lets these dumb broads she goes out with spend all their time talking about their feelings
Razzy: so i'm trying to get her laid
Minuteman: nice
Razzy: and i don't do mercy fucks so i'm not going to handle it myself
Minuteman: can you see this profile
Minuteman: [some bitch's Facebook profile with a pic featuring this Brobdingnagian girl in boxy hipster glasses posing with a shorter girl sporting an absolutely ginormous set of tits]
Razzy: yes
Minuteman: the girl in the glasses is the wanna be lesbian
Razzy: hmmmm
Razzy: and jesus, she's tall
Razzy: the shorter girl has a hot rack
Minuteman: i agree
Razzy: i guess the glasses girl isn't ugly
Minuteman: she has a sweet body and is very horny
Minuteman: i like both those qualities
Razzy: yes those are both admirable
Razzy: she does appear to have a hot bod
Razzy: well, does she want to go hang out with a trainee lesbian to experiment with?
Minuteman: i told my wanna be lesbian friend that your friend would contact her through facebook if interested
Razzy: what?!
Razzy: oh shit, i don't know how that will work
Razzy: i'll have to give twathopper a real pep talk
Razzy: half her problem is nerves
Razzy: is your friend down?
Minuteman: she's in training too
Minuteman: it'll be fun
Razzy: i'm trying to write a letter right now
Razzy: for twathopper to send this broad
Razzy: ugh in spite of trying to convince twathopper this sounds like a great idea
Razzy: i NEVER cold call pussy like this on facebook
Minuteman: do you want her real email address
Razzy: no that's even creepier
Minuteman: word
Razzy: what do you think of this:
Razzy:"This may seem kind of weird since we've never met, but to make a long story short, my friend Razzy was talking to her friend Minuteman, and they seemed to think we might get along. I don't usually do this, but do you want to test this theory over drinks sometime?"
Minuteman: perfect
Razzy: it's not creepy or weird?
Minuteman: A. is there a way to do this that isn't creepy or weird
Razzy: i know
Minuteman: B. Who cares? it's not us
As it turned out, Twathopper finally mustered the gumption to Facebook message this chick amidst a lot of "OMGOMGOMGOMGs" sent my way on Gchat. Naturally, the finely-tuned snippet of game I lent her worked, at least at first. This chick agreed to meet her, and it turns out that she and Twathopper had some professional interests in common. Twathopper does PR, and at the time, one of her clients was a luggage company. This chick wrote for a luggage magazine or something, so they exchanged a few flirtatious e-mails and actually agreed to get together and discuss baggage on their first date. If that's not lesbian romance, I don't know what is.
Unfortunately, like most straight "curious" girls without an enthusiastic guy around to hassle them, BaggageBitch decided that lesbianism was more the stuff of fantasies for her. She sent Twathopper an e-mail the day of their much-anticipated date, and claimed that she broke her toe and was immobilized. Twathopper and I both suspected that what actually broke was more likely her nerve. We both said, "Fuck that cowardly wannabe dyke and the one-pump chump Minuteman dick she rode in on!" and directed our energies elsewhere. Eventually, Twathopper did get laid, and she's currently scouting several prospects for further conversation about Ingrid Michaelson/advanced muff diver certification.
Well, as it turns out, Twathopper lucked out big time. On Friday night, Twathopper was going to the Yankees game, and sent me the following text: "Dude i walked past that baggagebitch chick on the way 2 the game: She totes recognized me. Haha. It's totes kewl she pussied out: Trust!"
I snickered. BaggageBitch wouldn't be the first person on Facebook to have a profile picture that makes her look way more attractive than she is in real life. I responded: "Ew was she butt?"
Twathopper replied: "Kinda. I mean not butt ug but not cute."
It's pathetic enough to be one of those girls that is always giving lip service to wanting to bang chicks and then backs out when an opportunity presents itself. It's even worse when the chick you ditched on a blind date sees you and thinks you are too ugly (or at least insufficiently cute) to hit anyway. No wonder BaggageBitch looked away and hurried off; she knows Twathopper is way too hot to L her worthless P. We're getting you a hot date to that Tegan and Sara concert yet, Twathopper!
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, Twathopper, you're ugly
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Irukandji jellyfish
DOB: who knows when they evolved, but they were first documented in 1952
Occupation: stinging the fuck out of Australian tourists and inhibiting production of shitty romantic comedies
Hometown: the ocean off of Cairns, Queensland, Australia
Current residence: a special place in my heart
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was just reading an article about how jellyfish swarms have been screwing with popular swimming beaches, and how this is a sign that the oceans are in distress. While I yawned at the article's implications that jellyfish are yet another harbinger of certain ecological doom (as are any biological anomalies in this age of Al Gore-facilitated Chicken Little paranoia), I did notice a mention of the "rare but deadly Irukandji jellyfish." I had never heard of this jellyfish before, and decided to investigate further.
Since phylum Cnidaria (and, for that matter, anything else big enough to be seen without the aid of an electron microscope) isn't within my realm of professional expertise as a virologist and I am unfamiliar with any scientific review journals addressing the topic of lethal jellyfish, I asked Wikipedia for the details. Although the article was short, it did tell me that Irukandji jellyfish are tiny, potently venomous, especially dangerous because they have stingers on their bell as well as their tentacles, cause a whole host of life-threatening symptoms, and I don't have to worry about them unless I go to Australia. What I was most interested in was the "Irukandji jellyfish in pop culture" section of the entry.
Specifically, I was interested in the following bullet point:
This jellyfish was the cause for the delay in filming for a Hollywood film, Fool's Gold, starring Kate Hudson. Filming was taking place in Queensland, Australia, when the jellyfish was spotted, and a marine biologist was called in to assist.
If only a marine biologist hadn't been handy. I dream of the day that Kate Hudson (and her co-star Matthew McConaughey) will cease and desist making movies that seem to be solely designed to piss me off. I haven't seen Fool's Gold, but I have written not one but TWO separate posts condemning this film anyway. Fool's Gold hits it out of the park in terms of things I will assuredly loathe. It contains bitchy, sex-starved prudish women, hippies, lame sex scenes between the aforementioned, absurdly historically inaccurate treasure hunts, marital bickering, and poorly written, timed, and executed jokes about all of the above. I don't need to see Fool's Gold to know that this film was a waste of everything: money, time, tasty craft services food that could be used to feed better actors in a better movie, viewer's patience and sanity, etc. I think that tonight I will dream pleasant dreams about Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey sinking into the Australian seas after being stung everywhere by small yet lethal Irukandji jellyfish.
I can only hope that, thanks to global warming and the general declining health of the oceans, that if Hollywood is arrogant enough to greenlight Fool's Gold 2, the proliferating Irukandji jellyfish makes them pay for their hubris.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, movies, sexy delicious animals
Daily Douchebag: pussy-fiending anonymous commenter CREEPS WHO THREATEN ME
Name: anonymous
DOB: ????
Occupation: creeping me the fuck out
Hometown: ???
Current residence: the IP address originated from Reston, Virginia, but that doesn't mean anything...it could be anywhere
Douchebaggery: I'm used to getting comments from people bitching about how I haven't posted pictures of my fucking cooze even though months ago I said that eventually I would get around to doing so. I think that, while I've got great tits, the rest of me is just okay-looking, so it's very flattering that some of my readers think I'm such a hot piece and would like to jerk it to the total package. However, while I do enjoy a nice ego-stroking, I also reserve the right to exercise a little discretion when it comes to disclosing visuals of my vagina, and that discretion has been built on some of the uncomfortable and sometimes downright creepy requests and demands to see said gash.
I realize I am VERY forward and honest about myself–both physically and with regard to my personal life–on this website, and that such requests come with the territory. I accept that, and I don't mind when readers remind me that they'd like to see the whole enchilada. However, whether or not I show myself full-frontal is my decision, and I've just never been completely comfortable with doing that the same way I show pictures of my breasts. I thought I was, but every time I go to post it, I realize that I'm just not okay with it. I know that this sounds uncharacteristically prudish coming from someone who probably has fifty pictures of her tits on the internets, but...well, there's a big difference between my tits and my twat. I know that I already have a picture of me fully naked on this site, but frankly, Kate and Camilla do a way better job taking full-body nudes with their professional photography equipment than I do with my webcam, and at the end of the day, I'm just not very comfortable having a twat shot on every archive page of this website. Even shameless sluts like myself have their limits, and I guess this is mine. Besides, as my photography skills have been criticized in the past for bad lighting, amateurish composition, and general lack of artistry, it's not like any self-portraits of my cooch are going to be that great anyway.
Sometimes the insistence of the demands for a gander at my cho-cha is so strong that it becomes disturbing to me. Again, I realize I promised this and I am fine when people remind me that I did so. I appreciate each and every reader I have, and I am flattered by the interest. However, it's a much different story when people assume that, in lieu of my publishing pictures of my pussy, I owe them something else. I've gotten a couple e-mails suggesting that if I don't want to show my pussy online, maybe I should go to so-and-so's apartment and show them personally, and then fuck them on top of that for my negligence. Usually I just don't respond, because guess what? I don't CARE if I promised halfheartedly on my website to show you the goods...you don't get to demand sex or a private show or anything else on account of my reserving the right to CHANGE MY MIND ABOUT MY OWN FUCKING GENITALIA AND PUBLIC DISPLAYS THEREOF. However, yesterday I was greatly unnerved when Friday's excuse/topless pic received a comment that went from annoying insistence to a straight-up threat (complete with shitty grammar):
Your a fucking liar, YOU BITCH!!!!!!!!
Months and months ago you promised to show us all you're pussy and there are alot of us who have come back waiting for this day. Instead you FLAGGRANTLY IGNORE when I remind you and just keep up with these halfassed tit pictures (and see comment above, this last one is like you did event ry!)
I for one am sick and tired of waiting and waiting for you to make good on your promise and show what you got going on down there. Your funny its true but how many people do you think really read this for the articals? Thats what my dad used to say about his Playboys but its not like he really read any of it.
If you know what's good for you you will hurry up and do like you said LIKE YOU PROMISED. Or else maybe someone will come to collect like it or not you liar ass bitch. Just kidding or am i...???????????
All of you who have been relating a paraphrased version of Levell "David Banner" Crump's mantra "since you're so hot, fuck it, show your pussy lips" can now thank this Anonymous for ensuring that this will never happen. I do not appreciate being threatened with someone coming to forcibly view my nether regions. I don't care if I promised, either. I DO have the right to change my mind about publicly exhibiting something as personal as my own goddamned vagina, and suggesting that I hurry up with that "if (I) know what's good for (me)" is not going to do anything besides guarantee that I will never do so again. If I were talking to a guy in a bar and made some joke about flashing him, then decided not to, and he forced me to expose myself, that would be FELONY FUCKING SEXUAL ASSAULT. Making threats about forcing me to do this over the internet is no different, and as I know from experience how quickly things can go from online comments to someone showing up at my doorstep to rape me, I don't take these things lightly. Future comments of this nature will merit a police report, and whoever wrote this should be aware that doing this over the internets is a federal crime.
Furthermore, I'd like to know what kind of degenerate comes here to not read "the articals." It's not like I'm trying to emulate Playboy. Most of what I post are "articals," not jerk-off pictures. This website is admittedly dedicated to "useless bullshit," NOT nude self-portraits, and if you would rather see naked chicks than "halfassed tit pictures," how about you go to a site dedicated to peddling smut? There are approximately 8 million of these out there, and most of them feature chicks who are way hotter than me and make a living showing off their uncensored pussies. Seriously, I strongly suggest that whoever wrote this consider whether they wish to have the FBI show up at their door (and probably meet with the fury of all the angry pussy-fiending freakaholic Razzyphiles whose chances at viewing my poon have just been shattered for all eternity), or just move on to a different site where there are plenty of bitches showing off what they've "got going on down there." If it's a cunt you want, then read any of my "Daily Douchebag" entries. If it's a literal picture of one you want, go somewhere else, because thanks to Anonymous, that isn't happening in the near future, if ever.
Thus, my apologies for breaking a "promise." I usually pride myself on being a bitch of my word, but when my vacillating over something as personal as showing off my cooch gets this kind of reaction out of someone, my own feeling of comfort and safety has to take precedence. I hope all the other pussy-fiending Razzyphiles will continue to read and enjoy what I have to offer beyond images of my naughty parts. I work hard to keep the non-NSFW parts of this website as entertaining as useless bullshit can be, and I hope that you will continue to appreciate that in spite of my rescinding my offer of crotch cam shots. I promise now to make up for it by continuing to write useless bullshit to the best of my ability, and I sincerely thank those of you who will stick around for your understanding.
Labels: crazies, Daily Douchebag, retard rage, scathing indictments, sexual assault
Friday, August 01, 2008
TGIExcuse
I'd try to write something clever about why I'm not writing anything clever today, but I got a solid two hours of sleep after an evening out drinking, carousing, and saying the words "Mazda Miata" many, many more times than I imagined I ever would in one evening. I know I've been making a lot of excuses lately, but what can I say? It's summer hours which means a lot of late drinking on school nights and unfortunately, I'm not 19 anymore and simply can only do so much without sleep. Therefore, in lieu of inspired hilarity or whatever, it's a perfect day for a good, old fashioned Razzy titty shot.
Have a great weekend, bitches. I promise Monday I'll be back rested and ready to rock. XOBJBS.
Labels: excuses
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