Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Razzy.org monkey trial
When I wrote this past weekend's post about my planned Sarah Palin Halloween costume, I didn't expect to get that many comments, if any at all. Who really cares what my Halloween costume is beyond a couple "oh, ha ha, you're pretending that gross dog of yours is a baby with Downs syndrome" quips? Therefore, I was surprised when the comment section blew up with readers hotly debating the merits of evolution versus creationism. The back-and-forth is getting a little heated, so I figured it was high time I stepped into the fray. Besides, if you want to know about evolution from the top down, there's nobody better to ask than me. I'm one of the most highly evolved human beings the world has ever seen. This is true, and you'll find diagrams like the one below in most reputable biology textbooks. Look it up!
The comment that started all this was by the ever-wily "anonymous." Actually, it was a couple of anonymous comments, the first one suggesting that I shouldn't be so happy about voting for McCain because he's a dick and because he represents "extremists who want to ban books and teach creationism in public schools." This baited some anonymous creationist, who responded with the spark that ignited the powder keg:
Why is teaching creationism extremist? It takes more faith to believe in evolution than creation.
My buddy Morrissey'sHair vehemently disagreed with this, and proceeded to set it off with some of his patented comment page bitchery. Some other people got in on the action, and I have to say I can't blame them. The above comment makes no sense whatsoever to me, along with some of the quips this person has since posted, such as "I beleive [sic] there is more evidence for a Creator (not throwing religion around here) than there is for the evolution 'theory'" and "there is more proof for creation than evolution."
Before I get into why I think the theory of evolution is correct, however, I would like to note that I am also a creationist. I believe in God, and that this God created the heaven and the earth and the birds and the bees and all that trash. However, I don't believe that God did all this in 6 24-hour days and then took a day off exactly as described in the Book of Genesis. I am well aware that the Bible (or any other account of divine creation from other faiths) is not intended as a scientific text, and that the whole Adam and Eve business is a myth to explain a religious truth (God's omnipotence and creative power) rather than an accurate account of how the whole creation business went down. For this reason, I have never found my creationist beliefs as a Catholic to contradict my understanding of evolution as a fundamental principle of biology as a professional scientist. Belief in God is inherently a matter of faith, since God wouldn't be God if you could prove his existence or otherwise understand him by our imperfect human means. Therefore, if you believe in God, you can't prove anything about what he gets up to, and you'd be an ignorant moron to try and take some four millenia-old Hebrew mythology and try to spin it as credible evidence capable of proving or disproving any scientific theory. Creationism is an inherently unprovable belief, while the science that yielded the theory of evolution is a method for answering questions through experimentation and reason. Because reason and faith operate within different realms, I have never thought that creationism contradicted or disputed evolution, and I do not think they should even be discussed in the same conversation.
That said, the unfortunate proliferation of slow-witted, excessively religious idiots in this country have somehow convinced everyone that creationism, despite being entirely rooted in faith (which is by definition irrational), is a scientifically legitimate alternative theory to evolution. I don't care what faith your creation narrative of choice is based on; believing in a divine creator just because it suits your individual spiritual beliefs is a theory which cannot be proven or even tested experimentally, and thus has no business in a debate about biology in the first place. I think that the creationist movement has illustrated this by going out of their way to give "creationism" the trappings of science. I don't care if it's called "intelligent design;" if it's based on the notion that God is somehow involved, it's not scientific and has no business being described as such, much less taught in science classes. If you're going to teach "creationism" as legitimate science, then how do you even decide which creation story to go with? Who is to say there is any more proof backing the Judeo-Christian version of things than that earth was a chick named Gaia who banged a sky-dude named Uranus and begat the Titans? The fact is that the only "proof" behind any tale of divine creation is the conviction of the faithful who subscribe to that particular mythology and their selectively chosen claims about pseudoscientific instances of evolution being contradicted that only serve to illustrate their ignorance of biology.
I've noticed that the creationist crew likes to point out that evolution is a "theory," not a fact, and has busted out with a bunch of supposed "evidence" about how evolution contradicts nature. For example, evolution violates the second law of thermodynamics. For those of you who are rusty on your high school chemistry, let me remind you that this is also known as the law of entropy, or the notion that all ordered systems proceed toward disorder. The creationists argue that since Darwinism mandates beings evolving to a "higher" or "better" state of being, this can't be consistent with our understanding of entropy. However, this argument ignores the molecular basis for evolution, which is genetic mutation. As a commenter correctly pointed out, this is a random process, both in terms of how mutation is generated and the environmental conditions that lead to specific mutations being selected. Now that we have the technology available to sequence and apply bioinformatics to entire genomes, we can trace specific genetic changes between evolutionary relatives. For example, we can use sophisticated analytical techniques to mine sequence data and determine roughly when the human lineage diverged from the common ancestor we share with our closest primate relative, the chimpanzee. Suggesting that evolution has a "goal" to somehow result in a "higher" or "better" being demonstrates nothing save ignorance about the molecular basis of life. But just in case it isn't enough to point out that the old "second law of thermodynamics" attempt at disproving evolution is a bust, I should point out that a proper application of scientific fundamentals also negates creationism. The laws of conservation of mass and energy essentially demonstrate that something (whether matter or energy, and life certainly constitutes BOTH) cannot be created from nothing, which is inconveniently THE essential feature of any creationist hypothesis. I suppose it is convenient supporting a theory that allows the most fundamental principles of any branch of science to be violated due to the presence of an omnipotent God.
Another pseudoscientific argument I expected to come up in this debate is the issue of "microevolution," and sure enough, I was not disappointed. The concept of "microevolution" has been developed by the so-called "intelligent design" community to discount experimental data supporting evolution. Microevolution is the notion that changes occur at or below the species level (such as phenotypic differences in dog breeds or pathogenic bacteria evolving drug resistance due to antibiotic overuse), but not at a larger level (such as dinosaurs evolving into modern-day birds). The only difference is the time scale, as over millions versus thousands of years, organisms accumulate more and more mutations distinguishing them from their evolutionary progenitors. I suspect what the creationists like to call "macroevolution"–or distinction at higher taxonomic levels–will be proven eventually. The only difference between genetic variations distinguishing an eagle from a hawk compared to those distinguishing a velociraptor from any extant bird are the cumulation of many mutations over time. Unfortunately, we can't extract high-quality DNA from dinosaurs to prove they are the "macro"-evolutionary ancestors of birds with existing technology. As soon as we do have that technology, I expect that the fossil record will be linked by molecular means rather than the simple linking of common phenotypic traits. I find the evidence of "microevolution" extremely convincing that ALL evolution proceeds in this manner from personal experience.
I work on RNA viruses, which are probably the fastest-evolving almost-organisms known to science (viruses are "almost-organisms" since they are not technically alive, as they can't reproduce without a host cell). RNA viruses have an incredibly high mutation rate, because the enzymes that copy their genomes have an incredibly high error rate. These enzymes, known as RNA polymerases, make an error in replicating genomes 10 times more frequently than DNA polymerases. Also, unlike DNA polymerases, they don't have reliable proofreading capabilities. Also, RNA viruses can reproduce in 6-12 hours, meaning that between their rapid generation time and high mutation rate, they can "evolve" right in your lab incubator. If I want to make a rhinovirus that grows well in mouse cells, for example, I can just culture rhinovirus in mouse cells over and over again. Eventually I will select variants which are adapted to growth in mouse cells, and in fact, I have...that's the basis of my entire doctoral thesis. The intelligent design people can call this, as well as similar variant selection strategies for bacteria and other rapidly dividing microbes, "microevolution" to dismiss it as an actual example supporting Darwin's theory. However, this is no different than evolution of larger organisms over longer periods of time. We can never see humans evolve into different species because our generation time spans decades rather than hours, and we are complex multicellular organisms that need to accumulate more mutations to display an obvious phenotype, much less one significant enough to be considered a divergent species. However, it happens the same way for humans, dinosaurs, whales, and anything else with a genome made of nucleic acids that it does with RNA viruses. I don't see how any reasonable, intelligent person can say that maybe "evolution" in the form of genotypic mutations resulting in the selection of particular phenotypic variants more adapted to growth in their environmental conditions occurs only in the microbial world, but every other living thing on earth was created on days 4-6 of the Genesis narrative.
I doubt that I've convinced anyone on the merits of the "theory" of evolution who was already determined that creationism is more reasonable, more probable, or less extremist. In fact, as I've been working on this post, the debate has raged on and culminated in the creationist implying that all the evolutionists are going to Hell. While that's not explicitly stated, I certainly know a veiled burn-in-Hell threat when I see one:
Oh course there's really only one way to test this theory, and we ALL will test it one day, die. Of course if I'm wrong, what's my loss, I'm dead. If you're wrong well...You better be 100% sure you're right, you have much more to lose than I do.
One thing I am 100% sure about is that our death and ascension to the afterlife is a pretty shitty test of which theory is right. I have no idea whether or not anyone gets filled in on how God rolls with running the life game once they die. Furthermore, I have a hard time believing that using what I consider our God-given reason to accept a theory that has been extensively proven by a number of experiments and observations is something meriting eternal damnation. For one thing, as I said before, I am a creationist who ALSO fully subscribes to the theory of evolution. Evolution doesn't exclude divine creation; it just excludes the six day creation theory. In fact, the more I know about evolution, the more impressed I am at how brilliant God's creation actually is. If anything, I think evolution supports the existence of God more than excludes or denies it, so I hardly think it's something worthy of a neverending trip to perdition. Of course, in my case, this is probably a moot point since St. Peter's just going to take a gander at my file and send me straight to the "Down" escalator, but I doubt it's going to be because I think evolution is a valid and convincing explanation for the wonders of the living world. That's one thing I have a certain measure of faith in.
Labels: Dear God, nerd alert, Razzyphiles, retard rage, science
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The fourth annual slutty-ass ho Razzy Halloween costume
Every year, I come up with some extra-skanky Halloween costume. This started because the grad student Halloween party I attend annually offered a prize in 2005 for the "most naked" costume, and I intended to win this. I came up with "King Slut," which was basically a bunch of cheap gold jewelry, heavy eyeliner, a pharoah hat, and five rolls of gauze from Rite-Aid. Naturally, I walked out of that party savoring my prize of four cans of Tecate and a cheap ass-flask of Montezuma brand tequila. Victory is sweet.
While no prizes were offered in subsequent years, I continued my tradition of wearing costumes involving as little clothing as possible, because naked is my favorite way to be. Every year, however, I worry that I won't be able to come up with anything good and that I'll have to go with the Lady Godiva costume I've threatened for a while. Showing up completely nude except for a wig is a bit much even for me, so I put a great deal of pressure on myself to come up with something clever and almost naked instead. I've always managed to come up with something, and every year without fail I'm pleased when I get my platonic life partner J-Sexy to bellow, "You have outdone yourself again, Razzy, you scandolos ridicolos ho!"
Luckily, this year I've come up with something timely and relevant that will still allow me to march around in underwear and amuse everyone. This is probably the last year I will attend this grad school soiree, and in fact, it's probably the final year this soiree will even occur, since the fella who throws it is graduating within the next year too. I thus felt especially pressured to go out with a decisive bang. For a minute I thought about going as my new god of cultic worshipfulness Ishtar, but then I remembered that most people probably aren't that familiar with any of the ancient sex deities of the Fertile Crescent and wouldn't get it. Then will a little help from LL Cool Jew, I came up with the perfect costume. It's timely, recognizable, and best of all, allows me to run around in a bikini. With a gun, no less. Before I show you the inspiration for my costume, though, let's just take a walk down memory lane and review the costumes from Halloween parties past.
2005: King Slut
While not an actual historical figure, as I mentioned before, King Slut left that party with the alcoholic spoils of victory. I really did deserve the "most naked" prize. Five rolls of gauze actually don't go very far in terms of coverage.
2006: Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones at the 1999 VMAs
This costume was surprisingly difficult to put together. You have no idea how difficult it is to find purple pasties and a purple off-the-breast dress. I had to make that shit! It turned out well. I think people actually believed that like Lil' Kim, I had buffoons eatin' my pussy while I watch cartoons (I do in real life, except I watch football instead of cartoons). And if anyone has use for a purple wig, holler at your girl. I got the hook-up.
2007: Britney Spears at the 2007 VMAs
It's Britney, bitch! I was particularly proud of the attention to detail I lavished on this costume. I even left the Rite-Aid press-on nail off my right ring finger to accurately reflect the acrylic Brit-Brit snapped off during her memorably fucked-up performance of "Gimme More" and swung by the Washington Heights Starbucks for an appropriate beer container.
And, now without further ado...
2008: Governor Sarah Palin (R-AK) in her U! S! A! bikini
Okay, so this picture might be a fake, but as far as I'm concerned, Governor Palin took second place in the Miss Alaska pageant way back when because she wore a two-piece in the swimsuit competition, so it's accurate enough. I'm going to add a "Miss Wasilla" sash for a little extra authenticity. And, for some REAL extra authenticity, Governor Palin is going to be accompanied by her infant son Trig:
All I need is an American flag bikini, some glasses, a brown wig, a rifle, and a Chingy!-sized onesie. CHONGAY CHONG, Governor Palin Halloween costume!
Labels: Britney Spears, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Kim, nudity, United States of Asskickery
Friday, September 26, 2008
What would Ishtar do?
I am not the kind of girl who usually gets very emotionally attached to people I'm sleeping with. In fact, I usually treat many of the people–especially the fellas–I bang with something almost like contempt. I kick them out of my apartment and my life when I've finished using them for my own gratification, I resent them for liking me on occasions when they do, and I look for mistakes they make so that I can objectify and criticize them, and thus avoid any unpleasant emotional entanglements that might make me seem vulnerable, imperfect, or otherwise human. As LL Cool Jew explained to me the other day, "you're just allergic to the idea of being uncool, and you equate uncool with intimacy." I don't know if "uncool" is the right word, but she's definitely right about me fearing that in the course of sleeping with somebody, I might actually like them, develop some type of a–ahem–relationship with them, and let them get a look at my soft underbelly. Then usually the whole thing goes south somehow, and I'm living out my eponymous Rolling Stones song. My kisses still taste sweet and there ain't a woman that comes close to me, but Angie, ain't it time we said goodbye?
Okay, so maybe she looks like what would happen if someone combined essential elements of Goser the Gozerian, Marilyn Chambers, and an 80s aerobics instructor-by-day, stripper-by-night and airbrushed it on the side of a child molester van, but this is the kind of hooker-ass prostitute I can get behind with some sacrilegious worship when I need to get my bitch legs back. Any lady with such a seriously hot wardrobe, a battle lion, and a fighting force of knife-wielding courtesans with bad Ogilvie home perms can definitely perk me up when I'm feeling too emotional and sad about my love life. From now on, when life throws me a "boo hoo, things didn't go your way" kind of curve ball, fuck Jesus. I'm going to ask myself what Ishtar would do. WWID!
On occasions when I do wind up sleeping with someone I like, developing some sort of relationship with that person, and then fucking the whole thing up, like the Angie of the song I get a little sadness in my eyes. Okay, I get a lot of sadness in my eyes sometimes, because secretly I'm extremely sensitive and usually end up looking and feeling like a walking Morrissey song. In situations where someone clearly screws me over, I unleash Razzy in full force by going on a scotch-fueled bender in which I revenge-fuck half of New York as effigies of my offender and vow utter destruction (or at least drink-throwing and public humiliation) upon the hapless fool who squandered the rare blessing of seeing the soft, sweet, vulnerable side of me that I regard as a dirty secret. I validate every sucker who believes in astrology and embody the typical Scorpio, a fury of sex, war, passion, and vengeance. I make the person who hurt my feelings my sworn enemy, and vow to smote his ruin upon the mountainside. I will not rest until his ass is jobless, penniless, homeless, and hairless. Or, since those things are actually and unfortunately out of my power to effect, at least cause him some trouble in terms of getting laid in the future.
Then, there are the situations in which the other person is not the bad guy. These are the situations in which things fail due to circumstances beyond my or the other party's control, and I can't raise my battle standard and recoup my pride in righteous anger. These are the situations where failure just happens and it's unfortunate and shitty, but nobody is really to blame. These instances are more difficult for me to deal with, because without a target for relief in the form of directed rage, I instead feel the profound sadness of life just not being fair.
A lot of people turn to religion to make sense of such senseless scenarios, but I've found that Catholicism does little to console me. In fact, it makes me feel worse most of the time because I've landed squarely on the "whore" side of the Catholic virgin-whore dichotomy of femaleness, and am reaping the fruits of all the cautionary tales I was told about this as a little girl in school: emotionally damaged, rejected as "marriage material," unfit for motherhood, and reviled or pitied by the so-called "respectable" people of the world. Because both my inner rational thinker and my inner radical femi-nazi with "RIOT GRRL" written on her knuckles thinks this all an unfair bullshit construct designed to keep female sexuality and independence from interfering with the sexually frustrated patriarchy that makes the rules over in Rome, I don't think that dealing with relationship failures with Jesus is a very good solution for me. Jesus can handle business when it comes to the fate of my immortal soul, but he sucks ass at making me feel better about life's emotional disappointments. It's hard for me to put my emotions in the hands of a dude whose method of consoling skanks involves letting them wash his feet with their tears. That doesn't sound like it will be particularly helpful to me.
Thus, blasphemous though it may be, I have to turn to the pantheon of pagan deities for a little relief in the Angie-don't-you-weep department. Obviously this is something I'm going through now, and last night as I was mulling things over, I happened to be reading a book about sluts throughout history. I came across an account of the Babylonian goddess Ishtar (or Inanna, if you prefer Sumerian mythology). Ishtar was basically the skank ruler of the Babylonian pantheon, and she's my new hero. From what I can tell, she fucked her younger husband to death, went to the underworld to fetch him, got into the underworld by threatening to break in and unleash a zombie apocalypse upon the living, waltzed in stripping, got thrown into the Hell jail and tortured with some sort of apt slut punishment called "the sixty diseases," and was sprung when she put a halt to all sex on earth until her ass was freed. Then, when her resurrected husband was chilling back on earth and not missing her at all, she sent his sorry ass back to Hell! Another time, when some loser named Gilgamesh denied her, she set a bull on him, and that resulted in Gilgamesh and his asshole bros shaking the bull's leg at her in rage while she gathered her loyal army of prostitutes and mocked him with a big orgy. I mean, just look at this slag!
Labels: Dear God, for serious people, Razzification
My new goal: whatever I like
The other day, LL Cool Jew Gchatted me, fretting about the current economic situation. Don't let any stereotypes you may harbor about her religious extraction fool you; that bitch is about as interested in banking and economics as she is in particle physics, Harlequin romance novels, or doing home repairs, which is to say not at all. However, in this frightening financial climate, even those of us who are usually blissfully unaware of what goes on in the world of investments and equity and whatnot are forced to pay attention to the dire news coming from Wall Street. Since as a graduate student and a highly educated humanities grant specialist about to enter the job market, respectively, myself and LL Cool Jew are completely impotent as far as finding any kind of rational solace about how we might cope with the travails currently facing the world. Therefore, we occupy ourselves with the next best thing: discussion regarding diminutive rapper and self-proclaimed "King of the South" Clifford "T.I." Harris's current single "Whatever You Like," an ode to buying all sorts of luxurious shit for the chick he's banging, and rapper ternt sanga Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's current single "Can't Believe It," which is basically about the same thing except flavored with T-Pain's inexplicable desire for cold-weather real estate. Our employment prospects may be grim and our country may be headed for utter ruin and disaster, but at least we can fantasize about dating ballers with the means to make us say, "Economy? What economy?"
LL Cool Jew: stacks on deck
LL Cool Jew: patron on ice
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: (who drinks patron on ice?)
LL Cool Jew: dear t.i., i will tell you what i would like: to listen to this jam on repeat for the remainder of the hour. many thanks, llcj.
LL Cool Jew: TYXO!
Razzy: LOL
LL Cool Jew: i am really dumb but also, what are stacks on deck?
LL Cool Jew: i am so white
LL Cool Jew: TOTZ WHITE
Razzy: i'm assuming it means money that he's going to make
Razzy: future money
Razzy: projected income
LL Cool Jew: AAAAH
Razzy: let me check urban dictionary
LL Cool Jew: yes please
Razzy: oh oops
Razzy: it's soulja boy's record label!
Razzy: AKA "SOD Money Gang"
LL Cool Jew: really????
LL Cool Jew: that's dumb
Razzy: oh, also urban dictionary says it means "to have a lot of money" or "to have money when u need it. Never run out"
LL Cool Jew: You know them old sugar daddies...they be trickin', they tell them...
LL Cool Jew: see you were 100% right on!!
LL Cool Jew: "projected income"!
LL Cool Jew: dude
LL Cool Jew: when i listen to this song
LL Cool Jew: i realize how awesome it would be to be screwing a multimillionaire.
Razzy: well YEAH
Razzy: gas up the jet and you can go wherever you like
Razzy: if you date t.i.
LL Cool Jew: i wish someone would tell ME i won't never, never have to go in my wallet. :(
Razzy: get a mansion in wisconsin if you date t-pain
Razzy: i KNOW
Razzy: the last date i went on I PAID
LL Cool Jew: and i love the really insistent way he goes, MY CHICK GET WHATEVER SHE WANT!
Razzy: that was my choice
Razzy: i volunteered to pay because i like the guy and i'm all modern like thatRazzy: although like many of my speculative ventures, that investment turned out to be a bust
Razzy: but still, i only date poor or at best middle class people
LL Cool Jew: srsly
LL Cool Jew: no big boy ice for us.
Razzy: i have to be I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T
LL Cool Jew: LAME.
Razzy: i know, especially since i can't afford all the gucci that lil' boosie and webbie claim their independent women bestow on them
LL Cool Jew: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Razzy: at least there's still hope for me
Razzy: you're married to a journalist
LL Cool Jew: yeah but maybe one day i'll be the executive director of a rich-ass charitable foundation...
Razzy: well exax
LL Cool Jew: stacks on deck, patron on ice...
LL Cool Jew: (see, repeat)
Razzy: hahaha
LL Cool Jew: (TI is giving me what i like)
Razzy: will you really drink patron on ice?
Razzy: i guess i would if that's what ti wanted me to drink
LL Cool Jew: i mean i don't really fuck with tequila
Razzy: tequila on the rocks, no less
Razzy: why can't rappers be into scotch?!
LL Cool Jew: maybe if it were watered down
LL Cool Jew: i mean, if ti's buying, i'm trying
Razzy: i guess "dalmorangie on ice" doesn't quite have the same ring to it
LL Cool Jew: i could probably look right into his eyes in heels...
Razzy: lol
LL Cool Jew: he's so lil.
Razzy: that's why he's buying whatever you like
Razzy: he's overcompensating
LL Cool Jew: dude if t.i. gave me his black card he would so regret it
LL Cool Jew:i would destroy him
LL Cool Jew: he needs to put you up in a condo way up in toronto
Razzy: or a log cabin in aspen
LL Cool Jew: neither of those sound particularly attractive right???
LL Cool Jew: certainly not Wiscansin
LL Cool Jew: why is tpain so into cold weather if he's from Miami?Razzy: he's from tallahassee, actually, that's what the "t" stands for, but whatevs
Razzy: t-pain was hard up for places that rhymed with condo, cabin, and mansion
Razzy: and he wants what he doesn't know...it's all exotic
LL Cool Jew: hate to break it to you tpain, there is nothing exotical about wiscansin
LL Cool Jew: ooh, so what is a Marcialago or whatever?
LL Cool Jew: faincy car?
Razzy: i believe a murcielago is a type of lamborghini
Razzy: i am amazed that he can pronounce "murcielago" but not "wisconsin"
LL Cool Jew: the car is more expensive
Razzy: than a mansion in wisconsin? probably
LL Cool Jew: probably!!!!!
Razzy: i imagine real estate in america's dairyland is cheap
LL Cool Jew: esp. in those heinous suburban subdivisions
Razzy: do you think t-pain means a mcmansion?
LL Cool Jew: definitely
Razzy: or something like designed by frank lloyd wright
LL Cool Jew: i am pretty sure he doesn't care much for historic architecture
Razzy: probably not
LL Cool Jew: since those places rarely include revolving jasmine-scented hottubs
I think it's pretty much decided. I need to become some type of rap star, or at least start screwing one. This grad school bullshit isn't going to give me "whatever I like." I'm not sure what exactly that entails, but revolving jasmine-scented hot tubs sounds pretty good, as does "stacks on deck," any kind of premium liquor on ice, and a private jet at my disposal. And since the reality is that I'll probably be a Ph.D-educated bread line lingerer once our country's economy totally collapses, I might as well shoot for the stars and make "whatever I like" my new career ambition.
Labels: capitalism, correspondence, LL Cool Jew, overcompensation, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
And may we officially welcome you to the clam bake, Linds
Well over a year ago, my BFF LL Cool Jew astutely observed Lindsay Lohan's Smith College hat and postulated that indeed she had pulled up a seat at the sushi bar with clam-digging DJ Samantha Ronson. I concurred that Lindsay Lohan had most likely decided that she liked her tacos pink, and spent all the time since highlighting evidence (like dispatching missives from rehab signed "Lindsay Ronson" and making out on random yachts on the French riviera and talking marriage) supporting our theory.
Of course, we weren't the only ones promoting this hypothesis. The buzz about Samantha Ronson getting face-deep in Lohan's firecrotch really exploded when scenes like this started occurring regularly, contradicting Fat Joe's (unbelievable and totally nast) claim that Lindsay Lohan is his "O-jam":
However, the other night Sam called into "Loveline" to talk about how DJ AM's face has melted off, and because like any good lesbian couple these two may as well be conjoined, Linds was listening in and snagged the phone at one point. She then confirmed that indeed they moved Sam's turntables into Lindsay's condo many menses ago and have been delighting in their season tickets to the Sparks ever since. LL Cool Jew and I immediately took to bragging about how we SO called it.
LL Cool Jew: lezlo confirms relationship!!!
Razzy: i know i saw
Razzy: i mean, so anticlimactic
Razzy: like "i hope dj am gets better. duh we're gay"
LL Cool Jew: LOL
Razzy: but let's be real
Razzy: WE knew she had a reserved table at the sushi bar the day she donned that smith college hat!
LL Cool Jew: i love how their nine-month relationship counts as "a very long time" in Lohan Years
Razzy: 9 months?
Razzy: haven't they been having tacos for two for like 3 years?
Razzy: you first spotted that smith hat in like 2005 or 2006!
Razzy: oh nevermind, that was may 2007
LL Cool Jew: TOTALLY!
Razzy: according to my blog date
Razzy: so one year at least!
LL Cool Jew: we should crow about that for the rest of our lives
Now it is even more official than our respective Smith College diplomas: LL Cool Jew and I have lesbadar beyond reproach, and we can spot a pair of boobmashers long before the story hits the mainstream press. Our gayelle detection skills are more precise than an atomic fucking clock. Seriously, we can pick a Birkenstock jock out of a crowd from a mile away even if she's wearing a sickeningly expensive pair of Louboutins and a set of cocksucker leggings instead of something sensible and shapeless. I suspect that LL Cool Jew is correct when she notes that we should crow about how on point we are when it comes to picking muff divers out of a lineup for the rest of our lives. I have no doubt that we will.
Labels: celebrities, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sluts
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Avada kedavre! No, seriously, AVADA FUCKING KEDAVRE!
Okay, so I know that the "Avada kedavre" killing curse only works in Harry Potter, but frankly it's about as believable as the latest stunt epic douchebag David Blaine is pulling as far as "magic" is concerned. Besides, the prospect of eliminating him Voldemort-style in a rush of green light has never been more appealing. I wish that I could Avada kedavre David Blaine and get him to permanently cease and desist clogging up my news pages with tales of his latest exploits in pointlessness.
In the past, David Blaine has somehow managed to convince the public that swimming around in a giant breast implant, being frozen in a block of ice, and being trapped in a plexiglass box constitutes some sort of illusionist mystery. The reality is that David Blaine just likes to tell everyone there is something wizardly and enigmatic about doing uncomfortable things for a really long time when you wear eyeliner and black shirts. I have news for all the gullible morons who like to ooh and aah about David Blaine's so-called feats of amazement: his apparent high tolerance for repeated extended urethral catheterization doesn't indicate magic so much as a penis with impaired sensory capabilities. He's no Uncle Majic the Hip-Hop Magician, that's for damn sure.
His latest exercise in media whoring charlatanry, dramatically named the "Dive of Death," involves him hanging upside down in Central Park for two days. Apparently this means he could be at risk of high blood pressure, blindness, and a stroke. I'm hoping that all of the above will go down and result in David Blaine going on the permanent PUP list for magicians, but so far he's just dangling like a giant pretentious bullshit-spewing Robert Downey, Jr.-impersonating bat.
He's like a giant douchebag-shaped piñata, and his handlers were wise to suspend him six stories up. If he were within reach, I'd gladly start pummeling him, and that wouldn't end well, because instead of pouring out delicious candy, he'd likely unleash a giant shitstorm of loathsome assfuckery. Since I can't play Bludgeon-the-Fucktard, I will instead just root for a stroke. LET'S GO STROKE!
Labels: assholes, Harry Potter, magick is bullshit, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Cowboys' offense can start sucking any time now
The other night Jessica Simpson, a woman whose existence I like to block out of my mind altogether, was performing at some show in Vegas. Yes, for some inexplicable reason, some presumably hearing-impaired people actually pay to listen to this bitch sing, and she takes the opportunity between songs to gab about her love life.
Tony is a great quarterback, but he's a better boyfriend. I'm seriously proud of myself for letting him into my life. Through all the chaos and torment and everything I go through, I can lay in his arms and finally rest.Chaos? Torment? Since when was Jessica Simpson a fucking character in a Greek tragedy? Bitch, the last time I checked you were not named Iphigenia or Hecuba or anything like that! The only Jessica Simpson-related thing that can accurately be described as "chaos and torment" is watching one of her acting performances. Getting slaughtered by the US Weekly fashion police for wearing some heinous polyester Ken Paves extensions may be a little embarrassing, but it's hardly worthy of being described with such grave, dramatic language. The last time I checked, Jessica was famous for the undeserved feat of being a big-titted caterwauling dumbass, not suffering for all eternity in perdition. Frankly, the closest she's come to meeting those standards are perpetuating horrifying scenes such as this one with her beloved:
Furthermore, I guess Jessica should be proud of herself for her taste in boyfriends, since Tony Romo is assuredly an upgrade from her previous paramour, King of the Douchebags John Mayer. She should also be proud for getting Tony to stick with her in spite of the fact that she is a game-killer of the highest order. Last year, her pink jersey-wearing presence fucked up Tony's passing game so severely that even T.O. complained about it. In fact, her attendance at Cowboys games was so universally regarded as the cause of Tony Romo's late-season fuckups that The Onion wrote an extra-believable story about it and an entire website was founded dedicated to supplying fans of teams opposing the Cowboys with Jessica Simpson masks. Even Perez Hilton was supporting this opinion, and trust me when I say that ridiculous gossip fags are not known for their NFL coverage.
Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.
Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.
Labels: media whores, NFL football, retard rage, sluts
Friday, September 19, 2008
Please say the baby, NOT Talib Kweli
Yesterday when I was grousing about the Rock the Vote concert starring Talib Kweli and Solange (snicker), I almost immediately got the world's most easily predictable response:
WELL, HELLO THERE, GUY WHO LOOKS A LOT LIKE TALIB KWELI! It's nice to know that the search engines of the internets truly reflect Talib Kweli's most obnoxious consumer demographic. Too bad that one mere glance at the styling in this photo, from the tweed jacket-over-distressed hoodie-over-corduroy button-down to the unnecessary 1970s girl-nerd coke bottle glasses clutched in his well-manicured little paws makes me want to commence an orgy of murderous rage. I don't even have to listen to this whiny bitch open his PBR hole and start spewing "thoughtful" lyrics about society's woes to begin contemplating a homicidal spree throughout Williamsburg, DUMBO, and the Lower East Side.
I've been to a Talib Kweli concert, and the man is an amazing performer. I guess some people prefer the talentless styles of Lil Wayne and assorted other generic hip hop to talented flow and thoughtful lyrics. Talib Kweli is one of like two rappers working today that is worth a damn.Oh, really, Anonymous Rap Critic? Who's the other rapper working today who meets your lofty standards to qualify as "worth a damn?" I'm guessing you'll probably say Talib Kweli's butt buddy Mos Def. Know why? Because all you liberal arts-educated pseudointellectual hipster snobs are easier to predict than whether the sun will set in the fucking west this evening. Some fellow messenger bag-toting asshole brushed aside his asymmetrical bangs, readjusted his paper boy cap, and condescendingly gazed over the top of his Vice magazine through his boxy glasses to inform you at some point that listening to something like Lil' Wayne doesn't quite give you the same elitist cachet as listening to Talib Kweli bitch about the HIV epidemic or inherent racism in the justice system. Hipsters love Talib Kweli because of his "talented flow and thoughtful lyrics," which translates to "uses an occasional big word" and "raps about the news." Oh, and probably because some vintage shirt-wearing douchetard at New York Magazine probably told them that Talib Kweli is "socially conscious," which sounds to the average conformist vintage shirt-wearing douchetard like "trappings of intelligence." Talib Kweli has become so entrenched as the poster boy for hipster rap–oh, excuse me, I mean HIP-HOP–that guess whose picture popped up when I Googled "self-important hipster"????
So to calm down and prevent myself from doing anything I might regret (like violently claiming the lives of innocent hipsters), I'm going to just listen to something soothing. I'd rather listen to Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins, even though he thinks that shouting "jeah!," "daaaamn," "that's riiiiiiiight," or "let's get it!" constitutes "ad libbing." I'd rather listen to Todd "Too $hort" Shaw elevate misogyny to an art form. I'd rather listen to former corrections officer William "Rick Ross" Leonard make up outlandish fiction about his exploits as some kind of musically-inclined Floridian cocaine kingpin. I'd rather listen to Jose "Fat Joe" Cartagena make laughable claims about his sex life like "Lindsay Lohan...that's my O-jam." I'd rather listen to Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter say "unfuckinbelievable...Lil' Wayne's the president." That IS unfuckinbelievable, but it's also hilarious and thus entertaining. I'd rather hear Lil' Wayne jabbering about how he makes policewomen answer to "Mrs. Officer" and compels them to simulate sirens during intercourse "like a cop car." I like listening to music because it's ENTERTAINING, not because it makes me ponder all the problems of society, think deep, depressing thoughts, or feel intellectually superior because I only listen to HIP-HOP (not rap) that uses an occasional big word and has been called "socially conscious" by at least three different snotty critics. Talib Kweli and all his fans can lick my Lil' Wayne-listening twat.
Labels: assholes, Lil' Wayne, rap, retard rage, scathing indictments
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Rock the SNORE
I was just having lunch ("lunch"=Sugarfree Red Bull covertly slugged down in lab) and checking my Facebook page. I noticed that one of my Facebook friends, who works in Washington, DC registering voters or something political and civic dutiful like that, had changed her status message to "ready to rock the vote with Talib and Solange. FREE concert in Philly. 3 PM. Come on out!"
Wait, this concert is being headlined by Talib Kweli and Solange? Not to trash this friend's job or anything, but if this is the best Rock the Vote can do to lure young voters, it's hardly surprising that so many people are apathetic at best about participating in the democratic process. I would imagine that half of you reading this are scratching your heads and saying, "Uh, who are Talib Kweli and Solange?"
Talib Kweli is probably best known for being in the group Black Star with Mos Def. He's one of those socially conscious rappers who spends way more time bitching about poverty and racism and other serious stuff rather than bragging about his awesomeness, like popping bottles and models or driving ridiculous customized luxury cars or blowing $15 million in 1 week or his prowess as a make-believe cocaine trafficker.
See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant. He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic." I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.
See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant. He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic." I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.
Solange is even worse. She is best known for being Beyoncé's younger, uglier, more trans-tastic sister.
I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball. Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed. The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.
I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball. Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed. The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.
I don't care if this concert is free. Between Solange's annoying desperate bids for fame and Talib Kweli's humorless social commentary, free is still too pricey. You'd have to pay me to go, because this lineup makes me wish I was disenfranchised.
Labels: media whores, politics, ranting, rap, sluts
All beer and no restraint makes Razzy a miserably hung over girl
I didn't write anything yesterday because Tuesday night I was very, very, VERY stupid. Since the new "90210" is basically crap, I already guessed that Dylan was Kelly Taylor's baby daddy, and I have no interest in watching it unless the entire rest of the series consists of Jackie Taylor getting shitfaced on vodka rocks with Lucille Bluth, I resumed my usual Tuesday night bar trivia tradition. I intended to only have "a couple" beers and be home and in bed by eleven at the latest. Unfortunately, this didn't exactly work out. Our buddy GayMan showed up toward the end of trivia after spending the afternoon getting drunk at a paper conference. Yes, you read that right: he was getting shitfaced at a conference dedicated to recent advances in Post-Its, business cards, and legal pads. Then we won first prize as usual at bar trivia, and decided to continue celebrating. Then the bartender gave us a round of complimentary shots because we're regulars and great tippers. Then we decided to move to another bar for a change of scenery with still more beer.
Just to illustrate exactly how drunk our group was on a Tuesday night, take a look at GayMan's attempt to document...something. I'm not sure what's going on here beside our other friend The Continental rubbing his head on my tits and me being entirely too excited about one of the complimentary Post-It cubes GayMan picked up at his paper conference. First off, the quality sucks even for a picture taken with an iPhone, and that's in spite of GayMan's being a professional photographer with a photography job and a photography blog. He obviously had the drunken shakes while snapping it, which makes me look like an even more rancid booze-sodden sack of ass than I usually do when I'm wasted:
I'm just amazed that GayMan didn't get a photo of me trying my damndest to fellate that "Serious Paper" Post-It cube, which I vaguely recall doing. In fact, I have a hazy memory of making a valiant attempt to prove my Super Slut credentials by trying to dislocate my jaw like a Burmese python to fit it in (and failing...I can fit many things in my mouth, but large cubes of "Serious Paper" are apparently not among them.)
Just to illustrate exactly how drunk our group was on a Tuesday night, take a look at GayMan's attempt to document...something. I'm not sure what's going on here beside our other friend The Continental rubbing his head on my tits and me being entirely too excited about one of the complimentary Post-It cubes GayMan picked up at his paper conference. First off, the quality sucks even for a picture taken with an iPhone, and that's in spite of GayMan's being a professional photographer with a photography job and a photography blog. He obviously had the drunken shakes while snapping it, which makes me look like an even more rancid booze-sodden sack of ass than I usually do when I'm wasted:
I'm just amazed that GayMan didn't get a photo of me trying my damndest to fellate that "Serious Paper" Post-It cube, which I vaguely recall doing. In fact, I have a hazy memory of making a valiant attempt to prove my Super Slut credentials by trying to dislocate my jaw like a Burmese python to fit it in (and failing...I can fit many things in my mouth, but large cubes of "Serious Paper" are apparently not among them.)
In any event, I woke up the next morning still wearing my clothes with a mystery can of mace in my pocket (I vaguely recall this being a gift from TheContinental to thwart internet stalkers), no money in my wallet, and a brutal fucking hangover. I left work yesterday at three, ate a pizza, and passed the fuck out before "Project Runway" was even over. Hence my lack of anything remotely interesting to blog about and this relatively boring "Dear Diary"-type post. I'm just making excuses for willingly using beer to temporarily dull my mental faculties. I'm sure I'll be sharpened back up by tomorrow.
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, Razzification, you're ugly
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Chris Cooley is my kind of tight end
Apparently, Washington Redskins tight end Chris Cooley is, like me, a blogger in his spare time. Also like me, he does his best writing when he is in a state of undress. Sunday, he posted a photo of the Skins' playbook for their big game against the New Orleans Saints. Too bad he obviously snapped the photo as the playbook rested on his entirely pantless lap, as immediately noticed by the entire sports blogging world:
Even though my starting Fantasy tight end is Antonio Gates, who is pretty much universally regarded as the premier tight end in the entire NFL, I am almost tempted to start making some wild trade offers to my buddy G-Cat just to get Cooley on my Fantasy team. Any guy who sits around naked is my sort of dude. Any guy who sits around naked blogging about his Fantasy team is my destiny. Seriously, all the man needs is a pepperoni pizza, a sixer of Heineken, and the extended edition Lord of the Rings DVDs and...well, hello, Prince Charming. Marry me.
Labels: Fantasia, internet domination, NFL football, nudity, weiners
A circumstance in which hygiene and sex actually DON'T go well together
Normally, I think that good oral hygiene practices are a must for anyone who wants to stick their face in my crotch. I don't like the idea of some person with furry teeth or bleeding gums or gaping tooth-holes going to town on my holiest of holies, so I always scope a honey out to ensure that their mouth meets my standards for cleanliness. This is advisable because usually if someone bothers with a regular dental care routine, they also shower and shave and do other necessary personal maintenance regimens. I may like fellow dirty minds, but I do NOT like dirty bodies or mouths, so good hygiene is a must for me. However, I just learned that too much hygiene can actually be bad, at least as far as getting head is concerned.
I just received an email containing a link advising me that I'm not supposed to floss 30 minutes to 4 hours before performing oral sex on some lucky guy or gal. Flossing can make your gums bleed a little, and this can increase the risk of passing on the HIV and basically every other gross form of twat rot known to man.
Is it safe to floss before oral sex?
Experts say various things about oral sex and flossing, but agree flossing is not recommended before engaging in oral sex. The advice varies anywhere from 30 minutes to 4 hours, regarding how long to wait. It takes 4 hours for membranes around your gums to heal.
The risk of contracting HIV from oral sex is relatively low, but other STIs can be transmitted through mouth to genital contact. If you have sores or cuts in your mouth or gums or an inflammation from an infection in your throat or mouth, you are at greater risk for contracting an infection or HIV.
Oral sex is a common sexual behavior. People enjoy various combinations of positions and techniques when engaging in cunnilingus and fellatio, but it is the mouth and tongue that provide the pleasure in all cases. (RAZZY Edit: Um, DUH!)
I'm a little curious as to who these uncited "experts" are. As a virologist, I recognize that it's theoretically possible to transmit the HIV by oral if you have a cut there, but extremely unlikely. It's a lot MORE likely you'll get it by swallowing a big load of HIVved up jizz (at least per this 1996 article that I totally wish I'd written, because getting a Science paper about blowjobs rules), but that's got nothing to do with flossing. Unless you have some serious gum disease, I can't imagine that flossing would cause copious enough mouth bleeding to significantly increase the risk of HIV transmission. Frankly, if your mouth is in such bad shape that flossing causes a gingival hemorrhage, you probably aren't flossing regularly anyway.
I'm getting really annoyed with all these articles highlighting the supposed dangers of oral sex. I love oral sex, and I really hate the notion that I'm going to have to start using condoms, or even worse, the albatross of prophylactics AKA dental dams. I'm already constantly worried about throat cancer since apparently sucking more than 6 dicks increases your risk more than smoking, and as many Razzyphiles have observed, I've done a shitload of both. I'm also especially annoyed that this might discourage people from flossing. Ultimately, that's going to lead to more bad breath, which is going to lead to my not hooking up with people, and thus no oral sex anyway. Everyone loses!
Labels: medical drama, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Sunday, September 14, 2008
NFL Field Pass isn't going to help you here
I was just doing my usual Sunday morning last minute NFL catch-up before finalizing my Fantasy roster and heading off to my regular bar in the Village of the West. I was reading some article about how Kerry Collins is making his 15th comeback as a NFL starter to replace Vince Young in Tennessee and was snickering to myself about how all of a sudden veteran backups are in vogue. Pat Kirwin seems to think Matt Cassel is a disaster waiting to happen, but that (Puyallup native) Damon Huard, Kerry Collins, and Brian Griese are going to turn the Chiefs, Titans, and Bucs into offensive powerhouses. I was distracted from jokes I was making in my head about the Patriots jumping on board the grizzled old QB bandwagon and signing Vinny Testaverde when I noticed the ad on the side of the page that turned my smile into a really, really, REALLY pissed-off frown. The ad was touting NFL Field Pass, the NFL's online radio broadcast-on-demand service, for fans who live away from their team's city. I have to say, they couldn't have picked a better example of a fan living in a city downright hostile to his team:
If you are a fan of the Shitsburgh Stealers residing in the 253, 206, or 360 area codes, then you have bigger problems than not being able to hear your games broadcast on local sports radio. I've heard a couple people say things like, "Oh, there are hardly any Seahawks fans. Nobody cares about the Seahawks." NOT TRUE. In the glorious P-N-Dub, people are obsessed with the Seahawks. We fly the 12th man flag atop the Space Needle, the Tacoma Dome, and any other imposing structure we can think of. People travel from Canada and Oregon to go to Seahawks games. Qwest Field is consistently at capacity and full of Hawks fans in their full regalia. The Rainier flows as freely as the rain the Pacific Northwest is famous for. We invest large sums of money in jerseys no matter how dire the season (I own a BROCK HUARD jersey, for God's sake) and neon green Deion Branch gloves and beer cozies and every other bit of Seahawks crap you can think of. And if there is one team we uniformly HATE in Seattle, it's the fucking Steelers because of their CLEARLY rigged victory in Super Bowl XL. Granted, they won mostly because of bad penalty calling, but it's a lot easier to hate the Steelers than Bill Leavy and his crew of inept officials. Besides, the Steelers were assholes about it! They acted like they actually won fairly, rather than reaped the benefits of fake touchdowns given to Ben Roethlisberger and legitimate touchdowns taken from the Seahawks thanks to phantom offensive pass interference calls.
If you are the dude in the above ad, you better thank God you can listen to NFL Field Pass in the comfort of your own home, because there's no way you are walking out among the Washingtonians with your Steelers laptop dressed in your generic Steelers jersey and wielding your giant black-and-yellow foam finger. Venturing out in public like that would virtually guarantee that some Vitamin R-swilling 12th men probably whip your ass mercilessly with your own Terrible Towel, especially if you dared do so outside the city limits of the comparatively more pussified, politically correct Seattle proper. In my hometown of Puyallup, for example, daring to wear such an outfit at the Roadhouse Tavern would probably ensure that some scowling pick up-driving redneck would drag you away from the pull-tab bar to give you a vicious beatdown in the privacy of the outdoor smoking shelter. At the very least, some Seahawks loyalist would spit on your food. If you are a Steelers fan in Seattle, how about rather than subscribing to NFL Field Pass, you GO BACK TO FUCKING PITTSBURGH?!
Labels: NFL football, P-N-Dub, retard rage, Stealers suck
This is what happens when you care too much about Fantasy Football
Last night, I had what should have been a positively lovely night. I went out on a really nice date with a really nice guy (and I must be growing up or something, because I actually seem to enjoy doing this now instead of just getting drunk, screwing someone, and tossing them unceremoniously out of my bed before they can bitch about what a bad housekeeper I am). Then I totally did it like what and went to sleep.
While I should have slept heavily and dreamed of sweet things like puppies and pepperoni pizza and beer, instead I woke up several hours after drifting off in a clammy sweat. I dreamed that my Fantasy roster was all screwed up, and that somehow Bobby Engram got dropped off my injured reserve slot and now I was going to have to battle for him all over again on the waiver wire with the other forward thinking owners in my league, and that LT had inexplicably moved to someone else's team, and all my quarterbacks save Joe Flacco had vanished into thin air. Forget about David Garrard and Derek Anderson, even Tarvaris Jackson was gone from my roster? WHAT THE HELL!
Needless to say, upon waking I immediately grabbed my laptop and checked to make sure that this was indeed a bad dream, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Still, what the hell is the matter with me that instead of dreaming of pleasant thoughts like "I just got a proper dicking" and "I'm satisfied and happy" or "Sigghhhhhhh," I'm having nightmares about my Fantasy team. I need to get a life.
Labels: Fantasia, nerd alert, NFL football
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Homeopathy is bullshit
I slept weird the other night and now have an annoyingly painful kink in my neck. I've been taking ibuprofen and fielding all sorts of advice on how to deal with it. My boss suggested I get some of that cream that has aspirin in it, but "not the kind that makes you smell like an old person." My colleague and platonic life partner, J-Sexy, simply cackled and reminded me that I am getting up there in years and joint, neck, and back problems are going to be par for the geriatric course in my thirties. "Perhaps you should get a heating pad, Oldilocks! Or perhaps you should acquire a boyfriend to rub it for you!"
I gave her a withering look. "Aren't you from the Jamaicubahaitican Republic? Can't you do some of that santeria hoodoo shit to fix me up? Like kill a chicken, smoke a cigar, and blow dust at me or whatever. Help a rheumatic bitch out, Miss Cleo!"
"No, I can only tell the future. The cards never lie," said J-Sexy. "I predict your neck will get better. Now come over here and I suppose I can rub it for you."
While I appreciated J-Sexy's deigning to rub my neck, it didn't provide a long-term solution. Last night when I got home, I popped a couple more ibuprofen and went to dig through my medicine cabinet to see if I had anything that might further improve the situation. The best I could find was a tube of this stuff called "The Rub."
I've had this tube since the day after I fucked this guy who was a piercing apprentice in 2003. This dude's metal bodily adornments absolutely ruined me. Not only was my twat shredded thanks to his ELEVEN penis piercings, I had a raging urinary tract infection and a huge hickey on my neck. I recalled that while drunkenly hooking up with him the night before, he had really been licking and sucking on my neck a lot. In addition to spending a humiliating morning at the gynecologist's office the next day for a very unfortunately timed annual checkup, I had to actually wear a scarf to work thanks to Lestat leaving a hematoma the size of Texas on my neck. The scarf was not an effective disguise, and within five minutes of arriving, my cubicle neighbor T-Bag took a break from reading ZagsHoops.com to ask loudly, "Hey, Miss Ang, what's that on your neck?! What could that be? You've got something on your neck!"
Several of our other co-workers/drinking buddies joined in, and I spent a morning enjoying the ignonimy of being the office slut. Granted, this wasn't exactly a new position for me to be in, but having an obvious hickey was even more embarrassing than usual. So at some point I was outside increasing my risk of cancer and heart disease with my office smoking buddy, T-Bag's sort-of girlfriend the receptionist.
"What do I do about this? Freeze a spoon? Who the fuck gives someone a hickey at all, much less a visible one?!" I raged.
"I heard that freezing a spoon thing doesn't work," said Receptionist. "But I heard that Preparation H works within a couple hours."
"Preparation H? Like for hemorrhoids? Really?" I thought about it. It's true that hemorrhoids have something to do with clotted blood and fucked-up blood vessels, which is basically what a hickey is all about. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
"Well, yeah, I mean I think a hemorrhoid is kind of like a hickey on your ass," said Receptionist.
"Okay, dude, we have to go to Bartell's," I said, and dragged Receptionist to the drug store down the street from our office. "Keep an eye out and make sure nobody from work is around." I really didn't want to get caught buying Preparation H on the same day I showed up to work wearing glasses and a hickey-(ineffectively) hiding scarf. I grabbed a tube of Preparation H and went to purchase it. I placed the box label-side down and tried to act casual. The cashier grabbed the tube, examined the box, smirked at me, and took his sweet time ringing it up. It felt like an eternity.
Back at the office, Receptionist stood guard while I applied Preparation H to my hickey in the ladies' room. It was surprisingly thick and greasy, and had an unpleasant medicinal smell that I identified with my grandmother's bathroom. However, I sucked it up and waited all day for the Preparation H to shrink my hickey before my eyes.
Unfortunately, by the time I left the office, I realized that the hickey hadn't changed at all. I grew alarmed, because I only owned one scarf, and as it was June, turtlenecks were not an option. I thought I might have to call in sick from work unless I somehow got rid of the hickey. On the way home, I swung by this fancy grocery store to buy some stuff for dinner. Because Queen Anne Thriftway was so fancy, they didn't have a regular drug store section that might have other anti-hickey options. Instead, they had a "homeopathic" section full of herbal tinctures and vitamins and bullshit like that. I think herbal cures are generally bullshit, but I was desperate. I found this stuff called "The Rub" that claimed to treat muscle soreness and "minimize bruising," which sounded to me like "snake-oil hickey cure." I purchased it.
I spent the rest of the evening rubbing The Rub into my neck, eating frozen pizza, and drinking a bottle of shiraz. The next day, to my extreme delight, the hickey was gone! I could have kissed that tube of The Rub. I put it in my medicine chest just in case I ever got another hickey. While I have since banged some real losers, none of them has ever been so despicable as to give me a prominent hickey, and I haven't needed it.
However, with my ouchy neck, I decided that it was high time I saw if The Rub was as good at relieving muscle pain as curing hickeys. I was full of hopes that if The Rub could perpetrate the miracle cure of shrinking my hickey by at least 90% overnight, it could provide some respite from the discomfort in my neck.
Too bad my neck is just as sore as it was when I fell asleep last night. Granted, last night I was eating delivery pizza and drinking Pilsner Urquell, so maybe my change of routine from the first time I used The Rub sapped its effectiveness as a magic neck malady cure-all. Or maybe homeopathic products are just a lot of inert bullshit dressed up in a lot of lame hippie marketing, and they don't work at all. Maybe my prior success using The Rub was more indicative of a placebo effect occurring due to my desperation to rid myself of that troublesome hickey rather than a panacea for slut problems in 2003. In any event, my neck still hurts, I'm probably going to spend the next week smelling like Ben Fucking Gay, and I'm pissed that I ever had hope in this homeopathic quackery.
Labels: aging, medical drama, ranting, Razzification, sex, sluts
Friday, September 12, 2008
This is why internet dating is for losers
I have a firm and unimpeachable policy against internet dating. Partly this is because after acquiring a zillion unsolicited rejects from Friendster a few years back, I realized that the majority of people trolling for dates online are hideous degenerates I wouldn't want to stand next to on the subway, much less meet under romantic pretexts. Validating this is my now-passé MySpace account, the inbox of which is regularly filled with tempting solicitations like these:
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Man, if I had a dollar for every time someone on MySpace saluted me with "hey sexy," I'd be a very rich woman. Clearly all the Razzy Haters who like to tell me that I'm fat, old, or ugly haven't been spending enough time perusing my MySpace profile.
Anyway, between the random propositioning on MySpace and the rejects of yore from Friendster, I pretty much decided that if this is the kind of dating scene that materializes without even trying, I can't even imagine the kind of freaks that are on actual dating sites. This supposition has been verified by every friend I know who has tried online dating. Sure, a few of my friends have met the occasional awesome person this way, but they had to kiss a LOT of proverbial frogs first. I've heard all sorts of stories. One of my friends met someone who was actually a porn producer recruiting new talent. Another friend met someone who claimed that he "didn't like fun." My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has made one disastrous crazy bitch acquaintance after another thanks to her forays into online dating. In fact, the only time she met a chick who WASN'T crazy, they became platonic friends and I ended up banging her. Otherwise, Twathopper has racked up a resumé full of lunatics, but this didn't stop her from going online with a fresh sense of hope that maybe–just MAYBE–this time she might meet a nice, normal girl who was down to watch some female singer/songwriters performing live indie folk music and not cause her too much trouble.
Unfortunately, she didn't get past signing in to Match.com before being repelled by the twats on there. She first found this profile, and I think it identifies the exact problem with online dating: a complete lack of touch with reality on the part of the people engaged in this activity.
Yes, how can I make myself look attractive for all the lonely single lesbians on Match.com? I KNOW! I'll style myself like I just walked off a box of Massengill and give myself the most obnoxiously pretentious screen name possible. Nothing turns on the ladies more than a recently douched "artsysociologis" who has conquered that not-so-fresh feeling.
Once again, I firmly espouse my strong "internet dating is for losers" stance. If you want to get laid, just suck it up like a normal, socially functional human being and go get drunk at a bar!
Labels: gross, lezbollah, MySpace, oh the horror, real-life rejects, sluts
Thursday, September 11, 2008
HAPPY 9/11 EVERYBODY!!!!
Another 9/11 has come already?! Shit, and I forgot to hang stockings for Osama Bin Laden to fill with improvised explosive devices and box cutters when he drops down my chimney. Oh wait, wrong holiday. Oops.
Anyway, I tried to cobble together a festive 9/11 card for you all, and figured that there's not much that says "Fuck you, Al Qaeda!" than a reference to the current orgy of freedom known as ELECTION '08!!! Like all elections, this one is so far nothing but classy and honorable, with both candidates saying lovely things about each other. The latest demonstration of maturity and graciousness has been a debate over whether one candidate was just using an expression, or derisively calling the opposing team's vice presidential candidate a pig. I'm thinking it's probably just an expression, because if Obama REALLY wanted to insult Sarah Palin by comparing her to an animal, I can think of a worse one. So can LL Cool Jew, who Gchatted me this morning and wryly observed, "You can put lipstick on a pug, but it's still a pug."
Thus, in the spirit of the sophisticated American democratic process embodied by the current presidential race, Chingy! got all gussied up real faincy-like to wish you a blessed and joyous 9/11.
CHONGAY CHONG, 9/11! USA! U!S!A! U! S! A!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, politics, terror, United States of Asskickery
Not grounded, not dead
Reason #4765 to stop fucking whining: we're not fucking dead.
Wednesday was a different day around the Experiential Marketing ranch. It became a little tougher to endure the nonstop river of conference call inanities, the continual misinterpretations of cretin clients and Cro-Magnon coworkers. The words "leverage" and "manage change" came tinged with far more bitterness than usual. What could be the matter? Too much carbon monoxide coming from the vents? A widspread, sudden existential crisis? Was everyone simultaneously unlucky in love?
Perhaps so, but more pressing: the Swiss were poised to conduct a test on a particle accelerator in the hours to come, at 2:30 in the American morning.
If it ended up a success, we would make a great leap in particle physics and introduce some compelling questions about the nature of matter. Hoo ha. Well, not we; the professor and the nearly 2,000 other physicists whose input he requested. But no matter.
IF, however, THE SUCKER FAILED, those no-side taking, unempathetic fucktard Swiss would have swiftly conducted the planet into a black motherfucking hole, thereby bringing on the end of the motherfucking world.
Blessed be, though, we were able to wake up on Thursday morning, not dead. Our phone bill was not sent off in vain. We still had time to call our moms. There would be yet another big fat bucket of movie popcorn in the bright future to come. We could return to work, able-bodied and with a bounce in our steps. Work wasn't any less mind-numbing. But we were no longer faced with spending the last day of our lives at fucking work. How do you say "amen" in Swiss German?
Wednesday was a different day around the Experiential Marketing ranch. It became a little tougher to endure the nonstop river of conference call inanities, the continual misinterpretations of cretin clients and Cro-Magnon coworkers. The words "leverage" and "manage change" came tinged with far more bitterness than usual. What could be the matter? Too much carbon monoxide coming from the vents? A widspread, sudden existential crisis? Was everyone simultaneously unlucky in love?
Perhaps so, but more pressing: the Swiss were poised to conduct a test on a particle accelerator in the hours to come, at 2:30 in the American morning.
If it ended up a success, we would make a great leap in particle physics and introduce some compelling questions about the nature of matter. Hoo ha. Well, not we; the professor and the nearly 2,000 other physicists whose input he requested. But no matter.
IF, however, THE SUCKER FAILED, those no-side taking, unempathetic fucktard Swiss would have swiftly conducted the planet into a black motherfucking hole, thereby bringing on the end of the motherfucking world.
Blessed be, though, we were able to wake up on Thursday morning, not dead. Our phone bill was not sent off in vain. We still had time to call our moms. There would be yet another big fat bucket of movie popcorn in the bright future to come. We could return to work, able-bodied and with a bounce in our steps. Work wasn't any less mind-numbing. But we were no longer faced with spending the last day of our lives at fucking work. How do you say "amen" in Swiss German?
Labels: FalloniusMonk, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, science
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I think I'll stick to the sit-on-my-ass-drinking-beer-and-occasionally-getting-laid workout plan
Today for some reason, Gmail's contextual ad serving software read all my football-related e-mails and decided that this would be a link I might click on:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
From NFL.com:
From the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:
From CBSSports.com:
While it's nice that Shaun Alexander really wants a new job and is doing everything in his power to convince the sports reporters of the world that he's a hot commodity (right down to implying that he's going to sign with the Bengals and start answering to "tres siete"–groan), he has yet to make it official with any team. That's likely because the "Shaun Alexander Workout" has resulted in so much speed and agility that I could probably outrun and outcut him. In fact, I could do so while smoking a cigarette and eating a slice of pepperoni pizza.
I figure that if Shaun can sell a workout in spite of his failed NFL career, I might as well get on board. I love any kind of workout that leads to unfit slowness, and I'm always on board for a good old-fashioned improbable get-rich-quick scheme. So keep an eye out atop your Gmail for the "Razzy Workout." This consists of Heineken-to-mouth arm curls, aerobic television watching, and cardio-fucking. As an added bonus, I'll throw in some tips on how to boost metabolism (ie: give in to your unfettered rage at stupidity) and protein shake recipes (read: advanced fellatio techniques). Frankly, this is probably as if not more effective than Shaun's exercise regimen. Certainly it will at least allow you to make up stories about flirting with the Saints, Bengals, and Broncos to make your slow ass seem more employable like Shaun is doing. I think it's going to be a big hit.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification, Seahawks
I know you're fat, but you don't need an umbrella that big
Dear New Yorker With the Giant Umbrella,
I know you're fat. I know that a lifetime of eating pizza slices and McDonald's and various iterations of halal street meat has given you the figure of Rosie O'Donnell after a particularly lazy week of couch surfing, but that does NOT mean you have to walk down the crowded New York City sidewalk on a rainy day with an umbrella roughly the size of an America's Cup yacht mainsail.
I also know that you may not be as accustomed to the rain as a native Pacific Northwesterner like myself. Let me assure you that should a stray drop of sky-water touch your dimpled flesh you will not melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Trust that if you did, I would run around throwing water at your corpulent ass because I hate fat people and I especially hate fat people who carry around giant umbrellas, and your dissolution would be a boon to my general mood and demeanor.
Your umbrella is just as, if not more inconsiderate, than all the other annoying fat-person-in-New-York things you do. For example, huffing up the subway stairs at the pace of a weary snail, only to halt at the top and block all ascending and descending traffic in order to catch your breath, light a cigarette, and/or start catching up on your phone calls. Blocking the sole means of egress from a thoroughly populated and necessary conduit of urban life like the subway is bad enough, but throw a gigantic umbrella in the mix and you're supersizing your already massive oblivious dickheadishness. It's like being in the first scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of being a hot adventurous Smith College archaeology professor trying to outrun a massive rolling boulder in an ancient South American temple because I want to brag about a priceless ancient golden idol, I'm an irritable Smith College graduate trying to circumvent a massive Rocawear-clad beach ball in a dirty subway staircase because I'm probably late getting to lab.
Even worse than the subway is when you walk down the street with your giant umbrella. It's like you are a traveling bubble occupying most of the sidewalk, since anyone not wanting to get their eyes gouged out by the edges of your umbrella has to give you a wide berth. This means that to avoid your umbrella, not only to we have to dash out of the way on what little sidewalk remains, but we have to usually drop our normal-sized umbrellas and get wet ourselves so that you may walk beneath your own portable fucking tent.
This is unacceptably selfish, antisocial behavior. What makes you think you are so special that you deserve to take up more than your allotted portion of the city sidewalk? You already DO take up more than I do on account of your obnoxious obesity. You shouldn't be rewarded for your sloth and lack of personal physical maintenance by being allowed to carry an umbrella the size of Queens and thus occupy even more precious public space. You should be mocked for your fatness and derided for your selfish choice of rain repelling equipment! You should be reviled by your fellow man for so callously gobbling up more than your share of sidewalk and forcing your neighbors literally into the gutter because your precious ass just HAS to carry a goddamned golf umbrella. You should be roundly disparaged for your poor displays of citizenship, not tolerated in spite of your obnoxious largesse.
Fat people with giant umbrellas take notice: from now on, I will not put up with your lack of consideration any longer. Henceforth, I plan to say things like "nice umbrella, Jumbo" and "hey, I think there's a little piece of your back cellulite that's getting wet" the next time I am trapped behind one of your mobile circus tents. I'm also going to give you a blast of extra super cunty face just to drive it home that I hate you and your stupid umbrella.
Cordially,
Razzy
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Color me a wife-beater
How the mighty have fallen. Bryan Abrams, once the Jordan Knight or the Justin Timberlake of 90s boy band Color Me Badd, went from international "I Wanna Sex You Up" stardom to being a plain old wimmin' hittin' Okie redneck. Apparently he got wasted at some bar in Oklahoma City (probably Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill), punched his girlfriend in the face, and started screaming "I'm-a kill you!" Prince Charming alert, ladies!
It's a good thing Bryan hadn't been drinking anything stronger than soda when he ran into Kelly Taylor at the Bel Age Hotel penthouse vending machine bank during the seminal "Things To Do On a Rainy Day" episode at the end of season two of the greatest show in the history of television, "Beverly Hills, 90210." Bryan's sobriety allowed him to resist beating Donna Martin's annoying ass to a pulp when he was supposed to be cheering her up after she caught her mom having a torrid extramarital affair during breaks at her "charity convention." Frankly, I'd be upset too if I was trying to stalk Color Me Badd and instead saw someone as simultaneously shrewish and gross as Felice Martin making out with some old married dude and making some sickening attempt at seduction along the lines of "I hope you saved room for dessert." I'm not sure that Color Me Badd paying for Peach Pit megaburgers with an acapella rendition of "I Adore Mi Amor" would be my ticket to a happier disposition, but it would be marginally better than an enraged, drunken member of Color Me Badd throwing back one too many Bud Lights while watching NASCAR and screaming death threats as he pops me in the face.
Then again, I wouldn't complain if Bryan slugged Brandon Walsh in the face for being a dumbass who wears a pencil behind his ear. Maybe they can bring Bryan and Jason Priestley back to the new series so that can happen. Think about it, CW!
Labels: assholes, Bev Niner, crime and punishment
Monday, September 08, 2008
He's no Kells, but he can still make an entrance
I was busy with football yesterday for the most part, but that doesn't mean I couldn't take time at commercial to see what's going on over at the VMAs (answer: not much, but the legendary Ms. Britney Spears did manage to crush the competition in three categories with her "Piece of Me" video). There was a pretty awesome performance by Lil' Wayne and T-Pain (or "T-Wayne," as they've taken to calling their partnership), but otherwise I was more interested in laughing at the Bears helped the Colts break in their ugly new stadium by summarily kicking their bitch asses.
However, there was one notable exception to the general soporific boredom that was the VMAs, and that is Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's entrance. Apparently, the "rapper ternt sanga" and hair-in-mouth-hating world's most hilarious critic of Ray-J's penis ("the man got a huge meat on him...no homo, but the man is swangin'") decided to really continue with the circus ringmaster theme he's been cultivating as of late, and arrived on a T-Pain chain-wearing ELEPHANT surrounded by a cadre of midget clowns and slutty acrobat chicks.
Say what you will about Teddy Pinnedherassdown, like he can't actually sing without an auto-tuner, or his lyrics are ridiculous (they are), or that "mansion" doesn't really rhyme with "Wisconsin," or he can't properly spell "in love with,""drink," or "rapper turned singer," but you have to admit that the man can rock some ridiculously funny style. His chain-rocking elephant is considerably more awesome than one of those Kanye West sunglass-wearing Care Bear plushies and furries that preceded his troupe of skank carnies to the VMAs. In fact, I think any time you show up ANYWHERE cruising in a pachydermal whip you're going to win the awesomeness award, even if you are a fat guy from Tallahassee with nappy dreads and a fondness for garish satin top hats. T-Pain definitely wins.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
The Lord's day
Many people spend their Sundays in church. They put on their finery and get up early and head to their sacred space of choice for a day of prayer. While I'm a CEO Catholic (Christmas-Easter only), that doesn't mean I don't observe the same tradition of Sunday worshipfulness, except my Sunday best is a Lofa Tatupu jersey, my church of choice is called Josie Wood's Pub, and my religion is the National Football League. I may be a heretical Catholic for cheating on my spiritual faith with a professional sports league, but football is worth the time I might spend in purgatory for that. Anyway, chances are I'm headed for the big brimstone bath downstairs what with all my fornication and abortion-having and eating meat of Fridays in Lent and partial gayness, so skipping Mass for football is basically a no-brainer.
Yesterday, I felt like it was Christmas morning. I woke up early, cruised down to the Village, and was seated at my usual table at my usual football bar by 12:15, catching up with what all the other regulars were up to during the off-season. Then all my boys showed up by the time the 1 pm game started, which was very exciting because my buddy G-Cat is a Bills fan (he showed up in a Lee Evans jersey he claims to have "pulled from the clearance bin"), and that's who the Seahawks were playing. I was busy alternately shit-talking G-Cat and shit-texting another Bills fan in our Fantasy league while I watched the unfortunate manner in which that game unfolded (the Seahawks played like shit overall, Julius Jones can lick my twat because he's sure not doing it for me on the football field so he may as well make himself useful otherwise, and our lack of decent receivers has never been more glaringly obvious), when something amazing happened.
On another TV nearby, the Patriots were playing the Chiefs. Suddenly, the bar erupted in cheers of approval and excitement directed at that television. I turned my attention away from the Bills-Seahawks game and saw a beautiful sight: Mr. Perfect himself, Tom Brady, writhing around on the field clutching his knee and screaming.
Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies. Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform. While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments. The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect. He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season. I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain. That warmed my evil heart. I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman. It was magnificent."
Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies. Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform. While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments. The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect. He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season. I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain. That warmed my evil heart. I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman. It was magnificent."
It was indeed magnificent, and most of New York also thought so. According to the New York Times' (lame and boring) NFL Blog, the entire crowd at the Times Square ESPN Zone "roared with delight" when Brady's season bit the dust. The author wonders why, and says that "saying the Patriots are rivals of the Jets, and, to a lesser extent, the Giants is not a great excuse." Sounds like a fine enough excuse to me. In fact, the Patriots are rivals of EVERY team in the NFL to a certain degree, since we all were rooting for those insufferably arrogant cheaters to get their richly deserved karmic due. I've hated them so blindly and irrationally that I made a foolish bet with my Pats-praising ex-boyfriend, which resulted in my total humiliation on the internets last Christmas. Most of the country took great pleasure watching them lose Super Bowl XLII, and I get an extra special thrill of delight thinking of the five spectacular sacks the New York Football Giants' linebackers and defensive tackles laid on his prissy golden ass. I still get just a little bit hot when I hear Chris Berman describe the 2007 Patriots season as "historic but imperfect," so watching the Patriots' icon of vain dickheadery go down in a blaze of girlish screaming is, to say the least, extremely satisfying.
Even though it's little consolation knowing that Brady's going to spend the next year off "rehabbing" (running around in J. Crew turtlenecks and banging Gisele), and Belichick will probably not say a word about Brady's injury and just list him as questionable for the rest of the season, I can't help but laugh with great joy and mirth at this new downturn in the Pats' fortunes. If Sunday football is my religion, then I am shouting "Halle-fucking-lujah!" and "Praise Cheese-sauce!" at the top of my lungs, because I just witnessed the divine at work in Kansas City.
Labels: Fantasia, fuck the Pats, I LOVE IT, NFL football, sportsmen
Friday, September 05, 2008
Break out the energy policy reggaeton
A bunch of crybaby bleeding heart musicians have been serving the McCain-Palin headquarters with a lot of cease-and-desist orders regarding the campaign's song selections. Van Halen pitched a fit about McCain using former Crystal Pepsi theme song "Right Now," and now the ladies of Heart don't want Sarah Palin using "Barracuda." While Van Halen actually did my boy John Sidney McHotness a big favor by preventing him from torturing us with Sammy Hagar's cheesetastic shitshow of a song, it's really too bad the Wilson sisters aren't Republicans. "Barracuda" is a totally kick-ass song.
Anyway, now my officer and a hot piece and the lipstick-wearing pitbull are without music to play at their propaganda rallies, and it looks like they won't be able to jam to anything with copyrights owned by Obamaniacs. Somehow, McCain and Palin will have to inspire their constituents without the invigorating melodies of Bruce Springsteen, the Dixie Chicks, or Scarlett Johansson's Tom Waits covers. They can kiss John Mellencamp's "Small Town" goodbye, as well as anything by Young Jeezy (although it's doubtful McCain would want to walk onstage to anecdotal tales about Jeezy DeNiro/Snowman Pacino customizing various luxury cars, evading law enforcement agents through judicious use of illegal machine guns, and the trials and tribulations of grinding at the trap anyway). Christ, even Toby Fucking Keith is supporting Obama! So much for lighting up the terrorists like the Fourth of July. The McCain-Palin campaign is going to have to go for something out of the GOP jukebox.
Unfortunately, that's pretty slim pickings. I can't see the future executive branch of the American government getting to the White House by heralding their appearance with Jessica Simpson's cover of "These Boots are Made for Walkin'" or Heidi Montag's...whatever the hell Heidi sings when she's not creating drama with Lauren Conrad. Therefore, from what I can tell, there's only one logical option: reggaeton singer and fervent McCain supporter Daddy Yankee.
If McCain's constituents can get past the frenetic dance beats that characterize the average Daddy Yankee song, the español-hablaing among McCain's campaign staff might actually notice that many of his themes are extremely relevant. For example:
Though the Mad Max-meets-El Rápido y El Furioso video might mislead you to think this song is about some sort of guerilla army of video hoochies taking on a paramilitary force during some kind of tricked-out motorcycle race, "Gasolina" is really about the McCain-Palin energy policy! "Dame más gasolina!" definitely has a place as a catchphrase in this campaign. So what if (according to some message board on the always reliable internets, anyway) "gasolina" is actually Puerto Rican slang for semen? I guarantee that neither McCain or Palin know that. Get some Daddy Yankee to precede those hot-ass speeches they're giving!
Though the Mad Max-meets-El Rápido y El Furioso video might mislead you to think this song is about some sort of guerilla army of video hoochies taking on a paramilitary force during some kind of tricked-out motorcycle race, "Gasolina" is really about the McCain-Palin energy policy! "Dame más gasolina!" definitely has a place as a catchphrase in this campaign. So what if (according to some message board on the always reliable internets, anyway) "gasolina" is actually Puerto Rican slang for semen? I guarantee that neither McCain or Palin know that. Get some Daddy Yankee to precede those hot-ass speeches they're giving!
Labels: hot chicks, hot dudes, John McCain, politics, Young Jeezy
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Don't hate the player; steal his bags
Tatum Bell is one of those running backs whose actual career in the National Football League parallels his career in virtually everyone's Fantasy league. Overblown news blurbs touting his potential (but never seen) abilities on-field result in his starting the season comfortably on someone's roster. Then, after his inability to do anything besides fumble the ball results in negligible offensive production, his ass is disgustedly and unceremoniously flung back to the mercy of the waiver wire.
Well, it seems after learning that the Detroit Lions had replaced his useless ass with Rudi Johnson following yet another lackluster preseason, Tatum Bell was a little pissed off that he wasn't going to be allowed to consistently rack up negative yardage this year. Instead of getting together with (Central Washington University alum and former Seahawk) Jon Kitna for some serenity prayers about the situation, he decided to respond with all the grace and tact of an irascible third grader.
Tatum stole Rudi's bags and drove them to his girlfriend's house. I can just imagine Tatum Bell rubbing his hands sinuously, or perhaps stroking his goatee with a villainous air, saying, "Rudi Johnson, you may have taken my job, but I'm about to take your precious Perry Ellis boxer shorts! Mwahahahahaha."
Too bad for Tatum's diabolical scheme that the Lions have video surveillance in their team headquarters, and he was quickly pegged as the culprit. His girlfriend brought back the bags, after Tatum emptied them of Rudi's unmentionables, $200, and some credit cards. Rudi later claimed it was "real shyster, conniving stuff." I would disagree that the plot was actually pretty poorly conceived and may have even been a big misunderstanding, if you believe Tatum's feeble protests of "I ain't no thief." Rudi Johnson does not.
This all bodes ill for Tatum Bell. After being released by the Lions and painted as a petty underwear thief, I doubt he's going to get picked up by any other team anytime soon. There's also the matter of him being a totally shiteous running back. Shaun Alexander is going to find a home for 2008 before Tatum Bell's bitch ass does.
Labels: crime and punishment, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, vengeance is sweet
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Beauty-disadvantaged is the new ugly
I've never been to Australia, but judging by what I've learned from a spate of Foster's commercials and Mick "Crocodile" Dundee, it's a continent full of awesomely crazy people. Along with other traditional Aussie customs like drinking, barbecuing shrimp, and putting random water buffalo to sleep with some kind of Aboriginal hoodoo hand puppetry, outlandish craziness in all matters is a revered cultural tradition Down Under. That's why I loved reading the news about some mayor of a town called Mount Isa begging ugly women to come visit.
Mayor John Molony wants "beauty-disadvantaged women" to know that they're always welcome in his "bloke-heavy" Australian mining town.
"May I suggest if there are five blokes to every girl, we should find out where there are beauty-disadvantaged women and ask them to proceed to Mount Isa," Molony tells the Townsville Bulletin. "Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness."
In other words, ugly chicks DEFINITELY get laid in Mount Isa, because all those miners are horny as hell and they'll take anything with three holes and two legs. Actually, I'm not sure the "two legs" part even fits into those standards. I bet the goat population in Mount Isa will be sitting pretty gingerly if Mayor Molony's plea for ugly bitches goes unanswered.
Mayor Molony seems like a dirty guy suggesting that the "beauty disadvantaged" among us head to Mount Isa just because the guys there are desperate to fuck any female in Genus Homo regardless of her facial severity, but he goes on to prove that he's not. Rather than just another bloke in a bloke-heavy mining encampment, he's a profound philosophical thinker who goes so far as citing a fairy tale which may or may not exist to prove the old adage that beauty isn't skin deep.
"Often those who are beauty-disadvantaged are unhappy with their lot. Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits," he says. "And, really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan?"
Not surprisingly, the few women already in Mount Isa aren't responding to the Mayor's entreaty for more ugly bitches with "a wide smile" on their faces.
One woman tells the Brisbane Times "there just aren't top quality men here."Uh oh. I think the Mayor has stirred up a hornet's nest of trouble. I went to Smith College, and I know all about "beauty disadvantaged" women suffering from a dearth of "quality" sex partners who have caught the protesting bug. I used to blast Too $hort songs about treating fine-ass bitches like dirt and breaking hoes for scrilla at their candlelight vigils for sport. Those girls used to get so mad! Fun times.
Some of the city's women plan to hold a protest.
"It's offensive to women everywhere, let alone women in Mount Isa," Betty Kiernan, a member of the Far North Queensland parliament, tells the Bulletin.
Anyway, ugly, undersexed girls with a mission act like every cause–from encouraging recycling to calling for a protest of Domino's Pizza to petitioning for the residential dining serve to cease serving North African Vegetable Stew–is tantamount to stopping the genocide in Darfur. They will annoy you to death with their shrill, shrewish, inane harping, and will never rest their circular arguments until finally you're finally so bored and irritated with fighting them that you just throw up your hands in surrender and validate them and go get a drink or otherwise occupy your time more productively. The mayor of Mount Isa is about to learn this the hard way, because if there's any cause ugly girls rally for, it's being called "ugly." At Smith, I think these chicks would probably rather see the oceans' ecosystems destroyed by 19th century whaling practices or women's suffrage repealed than be called "ugly." I'm quite certain that the ladies of Mount Ida aren't all that different, judging by the magnitude of their response and their eagerness to commence protesting.
However, I do give the mayor props for his attempt at political correctness with the employ of the term "beauty disadvantaged." That's the kind of roundabout euphemism that usually spastic protestors use to obfuscate logical flaws with pseudo-intellectual excess vocabulary. I'd congratulate the mayor on his caginess for beating the pissed-off women at their own game if I thought it was remotely intentional. Sadly, I bet this poor mayor actually looks like Donk from Crocodile Dundee: a thick-necked, occasionally violent, grimy man with a smell like transmission fluid, Lucky Strike butts, and three years worth of sweat simmered under the unforgiving Queensland sun, a moonshine still behind the corrugated metal lean-to he calls home, and a smile that's more teeth than gums. He probably just wants to get laid so badly that he was hoping to haul a large catch of desperate ugly girls without offending them directly by casting aspersions regarding their appearance. Poor guy doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be beauty-disadvantaged pussy.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, hilarious shit, international intrigue, sluts, you're ugly
Liveblogging 90210 2.0 or whatevs
I was just going to post my thoughts about last night's premiere episode of "90210" v2.0, which I gathered with my bitches to view at my friend JerseyGirl's house. However, while there, CorporateCard wanted to know why I wasn't "liveblogging" the episode. She works in cable news so she probably wants me to be a citizen reporter or whatever, because my coverage of a bunch of drunk girls watching a trashtastic CW TV show is definitely going to meet a serious need in the world of cable gonzo journalism. After the first scene, in which Ethan, AKA New Dylan McKay, is receiving a BJ from either David Silver/Kelly Taylor's half-sister or a chick who later turns out to be a major druggie, I decided that this wasn't a bad idea, if only to straighten out all the new Niner canon we'd have to absorb. We thought at first the head doctor was the drug chick and were unimpressed with her skills. She doesn't have much endurance in the fellatio department because, according to CorporateCard, "Her name is Poppy Pills. She doesn't have enough strength for blowjobs. She's a pill popper!"
Anyway, with that sort of shit going on, I figured that even if I didn't "liveblog" in the sense of immediately publishing my reportage, I could at least open up my laptop and record some of my thoughts for this morning. I didn't quite love the show as much as JerseyGirl (who announced the close of every commercial break with "OKAY YOU GUYS, QUIEEET, IT'S BACK ON!"), but I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been for a show that literally rips off the original Niner premise (Midwestern family–Rob "Kyle McBride from 'Melrose Place'" Estes and Lori "Aunt Becky from 'Full House'" Loughlin and their two similarly aged kids–move to Beverly Hills and try to fit in), and even though Rack pointed out that the New Brenda Walsh looks like a cheap Ali Lohan knockoff, the new Jim and Cindy Walsh are too hot for me to care much. JerseyGirl wouldn't stop raving about Rob Estes–or "Grant Show," as he was mistakenly called several times–being "like, the hottest dad EVER."
There were also enough appearances by former Niner characters to keep me watching. Apart from Brenda Walsh and Kelly Taylor returning to the show, Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez (almost-bastard daughter of Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman and her cuckolded baby daddy Jesse Vasquez) is the anchor for the West Beverly TV news station ("Good morning, West Beverly High...and buenos dias") and Erin Silver, daughter of hot pieces Jackie Taylor and Mel Silver, DDS, is a main character. Some of the new characters are also awesome. I love Naomi, the slutty New Kelly Taylor, who looks like Jessie Spano with a dash of slutty-ass Lucinda Williams thrown in, and whose name is so reminiscent of the Elizabeth Berkeley's greatest role, Nomi, from Showgirls that I plan to refer to her as Nomi henceforth. Apparently Nomi is on the outs with Silver after spreading gossip that ruined Mel and Jackie's second marriage (as usual, because Mel Silver couldn't keep it in his pants around his dental hygienist staff). I also love the fact that New Brandon Walsh is black (he's adopted, as the dialogue immediately reveals to prevent any confusion that he may be the fruit of Rob Estes and Lori Loughlin's loins), because it's high time Niner added a little splash of diversity to the main cast. Also, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" plays the washed-up, drunk ex-Skinemax actress of a grandmother, Tabitha. From the moment Tabitha steps onto the scene brandishing "an iced tea before noon...with a little Long Island in it," I know I'm going to love her.
By the next scene, she's dishing out advice on how to get back at lacrosse bullies. "Just grab onto those jewels and twist them, like a garbage bag," says Tabitha about ball-squeezing revenge for the possibly racial targeting of the New Brandon Walsh. Later her computer "freezes up" because she spills scotch on the keyboard and suggests that the lacrosse team terrorize their rivals by unleashing a horde of pigs on their pitch or whatever. When Rob Estes suggests she cut back on the boozing, she responds with a dismissive "oh PISH!"
I certainly can relate to Silver when she's confronted about her bloggity scandals by her big sister and West Beverly guidance counselor Kelly Taylor, who says, "What are we gonna do about this blog of yours? It does nothing but cause problems." I've seriously had the same conversation with my parents about a dozen times, after I've said something like, "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but some chick tried to get me raped via Craigslist" or "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but I just got served with a $25,000 defamation suit." Silver responds with, "That's what blogs are supposed to do. Cause problems." Thus far, I can relate to Silver. She's also exactly as hot as the offspring of the incomparable ex-coke snorting hot piece Jackie Taylor and horny oral surgeon Mel Silver should be.
The other teenagers (with the exception of Navid, the New Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, who looks like some type of literary Criss Angel) are at least intriguing. The drug girl who may or may not be too Viked out to properly fellate the New Dylan is constantly "rollin' hard" (per JerseyGirl) and is constantly in debt to her dealer. She even bursts out in random snatches of druggie song in class and almost gets caught using in class by the New Gil Meyers ("Claim Benadryl," advised CorporateCard sagely). She also apparently is acting in Disney Channel shows to pay her mother's mortgage, but this isn't working out very well because she's usually too fucked up to follow through with her auditions. She's not too fucked up, however, to stand up for Silver's blog-skewering of Nomi (who was publicly humiliated by the New Dylan when he cheated on her) by screaming, "She wasn't rejected, BITCHLIPS!"
The show is not without its problems. As far as the New Brenda and New Brandon are concerned, there's entirely too much sexual tension between brother and sister. They're constantly having their Brenda-Brandon sibling counsels while laying in bed together.
"If you're gonna do it, at least have an Americana quilt underneath," said CorporateCard. "It takes the edge off the incest." There was always some tension between the Original Walshes, but these two new ones make Brenda and Brandon look perfectly tame. At least they're adopted, so if they do screw at some point, their potential offspring won't emerge with a flipper on its head. Then again, Grandma Tabitha just looked at the new Brenda and said, "Look at that ass...you could crack an egg on it." Maybe inappropriate sexual behavior runs in their family.
The new Brenda Walsh is also a whole lot of I don't care. Not only does she look like a misplaced Lohan sister, she shares the Original Brenda's predilection for ill-advised moral freakouts. In fact, at one point Nomi sees her at some party and says, "I didn't expect to see you here, what with all your morals and everything." However, she's no Brenda Walsh in terms of personal style or drama. As CorporateCard wisely noted, "She doesn't have the brains, she doesn't have the bodysuit...NO DEAL!"
In spite of the fact that she's a plain, boring pain in the ass aspiring to dethrone Drug Girl as the queen bee of the West Beverly theaterfag circuit, all the boys seem to like her. New Dylan is vying for her affection with some super-wealthy Bentley-driving douchebag who looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and that guy from "Smallville." Too bad the Original Dylan was a badass who won Brenda's heart by taking nips from airplane bottles of booze and smashing Bel Age Hotel flowerpots in rage. The New Dylan is a lacrosse stud (and since when was FUCKING LACROSSE a popular sport on the West Coast?), and he attempts to woo New Brenda by weaving tales of a mythical five-armed sea creature called a "pentapus." What in the "bitch, please" is that?
The new Gil Meyers also annoys me. He's ten times more interfering and morally self-righteous than the original Gil Meyers, English teacher and faculty advisor of the West Beverly Blaze. He also has already started dating Kelly Taylor after almost bungling it by referring to her four-year-old son as "baggage." Oh yeah, and did I mention Kelly Taylor has a son? I couldn't figure out if her baby daddy is Dylan or Brandon, because while we all thought it was Dylan's, a conversation with Brenda Walsh revealed that Brandon may be somewhat of a deadbeat dad, choosing to live in Belize rather than Beverly Hills with what remains of "the gang." In any event, Kelly Taylor has the little brat wearing CROCS, which is inexcusable, even on a toddler.
Anyway, overall, the new "90210" is hardly the original, but even if it doesn't measure up to the lofty standards set by the greatest show in the history of television, I can still roll with it on Tuesdays. I'd watch it just for Silver's blog-mediated revenge schemes. There was one hilarious number lampooning the public outing of New Dylan cheating on Nomi in which New Dylan says nothing but "I like lacrosse." Silver recognized her own genius.
"I think this may be my best blogisode ever," she notes. At that point JerseyGirl exhorted me to turn on my laptop's webcam and film our own "blogisode," which was a pale imitation of Silver's, to say the least. For one thing, I am no cinematographer, director, or any kind of editor while demonstrating proper blowjob technique on beer bottles via the computer webcam on my lap. For another, I have no idea how to make Flash animations. I could learn a few things from Silver, especially since her skills have netted her HALF A FUCKING MILLION UNIQUE HITS PER DAY!
Anyway, if you're really, really bored, here's our unbelievably shitty "blogisode." Haters can have a field day with my chin:
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, HillsYes, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, TV, Twathopper
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Matt Leinart of morbidly obese stank-ass dogs
I've been so busy laboring over Labor Day weekend that I've been missing lots of important news. I did manage to hear about Sarah Palin, but somehow I missed the fact that Chad Johnson legally changed his last name to Ocho Cinco! Such an oversight is inexcusable, so I resolved last night to catch up on much of the news I missed.
Another piece of news I missed thanks to my overworked state is the fact that Matt Leinart lost out on the starting job in Arizona to Kurt Warner. KURT FUCKING WARNER! I have a lengthy history of scoffing derisively at Kurt Warner, beginning in 2002 when I wasted my first round Fantasy draft pick on him, only to have him break his pinky and spend the rest of the season on the bench seeking solace in Jesus and pouting. I'm not sure what better says "first-round bust" than Kurt Warner's Chunky Soup-cursed, aged, Bible-thumping, power lesbian-controlled self is beating Leinart out for the number one slot in trading camp. Consequently, there are a few articles about boo-hoo, it's hard for young quarterbacks to adjust to playing at the professional level, and don't call Matt Leinart a first-round bust QUITE yet.
Even former Seahawk Trent Dilfer shows up in an article to make excuses for Leinart's lackluster performance so far, noting that he could never have won a Super Bowl with the Baltimore Ravens if he had listened to those critics. He omits the fact that his team ran roughshod in that Super Bowl thanks to total defensive domination that would have shut the Giants out if they hadn't gotten lucky on a kickoff return. The bulk of the Ravens' scoring in that game came from Jamal Lewis running the ball, long-yardage Matt Stover field goals, returned interceptions, and a stellar kickoff return to answer the Giants' sole return TD. Trent Dilfer won the Super Bowl by bringing the same mediocre offense he had been known for all season, so if I were Matt Leinart, I would encourage Trent Dilfer to cease and desist with the comparisons. The last time I checked, Ray Lewis, Tony Siragusa, and Sam Adams were not playing for the Cardinals, so unlike Dilfer, Leinart can't even pretend at greatness on the back of a more talented defense.
I've been calling Matt Leinart a first-round bust since he first blazed into the NFL, because at the very least I suspect Paris Hilton's crabs can wreak some serious havoc with a player's game, even if he is a product of the NFL-friendly USC system. Nonetheless, professional and amateur pundits alike have been defending Leinart as the future of the Arizona Cardinals. I can only hope that's true, because it's partly thanks to the Cards' perennial ineptitude that the mighty Seahawks have taken five straight division titles. The Cards' consistent ass-sucking has made the NFC West into the notoriously pathetic shitshow it is today, and any future in which Leinart is allowed to continue with his lack of offensive production is one I can eagerly anticipate. The Seahawks may have one of the hottest defenses in the NFL right now, but I'd be deluding myself if I made similar claims about their offense right now. We have no wide receivers, an unproven rookie tight end, a kicker controversy (which until now I had never fathomed would even exist), and an untested two-back (or three, depending on what happens with T.J. Duckett) running game that I'm frankly awfully nervous about. Nonetheless, our patchy offense is going to STILL destroy Arizona, because they can always be counted on to suck that bad. Thanks to Trent Dilfer comparing Leinart's weak arm strength to Joe Montana and Steve Young, there are still a lot of people who will doggedly expect Leinart to be a Hall of Fame quarterback someday, and this all but guarantees Arizona will be in the trash heap of the NFC for years to come. I disagree, and rather than a berth in the Hall of Fame, I expect Leinart will be known by the three I's: interceptions, injuries, and infections from Paris Hilton's herpetic cooze. The Cardinals have no hope. I look forward to this bright and cheerful future.
In all this contemplating Matt Leinart's already unremarkable career, however, I realized that he reminds me of something. At first, I couldn't think of what it is, but I knew it wasn't my jeep, my sound, my car, or my bank account (okay, maybe the bank account, since it's EMPTY). Then it hit me: Matt Leinart reminds me of my nefarious pug Chingy!
This similarity isn't because they really look alike, but essentially they are kindred spirits. Chingy! and Matt Leinart are both disgusting assholes. They both think they are hot shit, despite the fact that facts demonstrate otherwise. They are both useless in terms of making any meaningful contributions to their teams. They both stink, and I've never smelled Matt Leinart, but I have smelled eau de men's locker room, and I think it's a safe assumption that when he doesn't smell like sweaty jock straps, he submerges himself in Drakkar. Frankly, even if he smells like fresh baked cinnamon rolls all the time, his stats warrant the use of the term "stinks" so it all applies. They are both encouraged in their arrogance by fawning admirers who rave about how cute and wonderful and underrated they are and make excuses on their behalf. In fact, when they behave badly (by, say, eating homeless guy shit, vomiting up used tampons, ejaculating on my living room floor, or partying in a hot tub full of Arizona skanks instead of rehabbing one's shoulder), their admirers excuse and venerate it. If the aforementioned floor ejaculation incident hadn't motivated me to get Chingy! neutered, I'm certain that like Leinart he'd be fathering bastard Pug mixes all over my neighborhood.
I think I could go on all day about this, but unfortunately I now have to take Matt Leinart for a stroll around the park, where most likely he'll eat decomposing rodent, injure himself, or disdainfully wander off, forcing me to scale a hill or break into a construction site to retrieve him.
CHONGAY CHONG, Matt Leinart!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NFL football, retard rage
H-90210-LY SHIT!
I've been anticipating this new iteration of the greatest show in the history of television with a healthy measure of skepticism. Unlike my friend JerseyGirl, who is fervently convinced that this extension of the Bev Niner franchise will recapture all the magic of its sublime predecessor, I think that at best it will be a "meh, I guess it's okay" type of show. In fact, I think it's even more likely that it's going to totally suck and piss me off. My little group of Niner aficionados had been planning to resume the cooking classes/excuses to drink that we'd been doing for "I Love New York 2" and "The Hills" a while back, but JerseyGirl is so convinced this new Niner is going to be groundbreaking that she advised our little Niner group in a recent email, "i seriously can't even wait. you guys we are going to have the biggest party EVER on 9.02. everyone plan at being at my house at 7pm. i think maybe we should even just order a pizza because i'm going to have to lend my full attention to the show, as opposed to cooking."
While I plan to comply and show up at 7 with pizza money and a sixer, I have not shared JerseyGirl's optimistic zeal regarding the quality of this show. However, a recent article interviewing Jennie "Kelly Taylor" Garth and Shannen "Brenda Walsh" Doherty about reprising their historic roles on "90210 2.0" has given me slightly more hope that it will be more intriguing than I expected.
Shannen stated, "All I know is there's a girl giving a guy a blowjob in the first episode."A WHAT?! This is not the Bev Niner I remember. Sure, the first season of the original Bev Niner wasn't without some scandalous controversy. There were episodes featuring Jackie Taylor nasally vacuuming up rails the size of a freeway stripe because she "just needs a jump start," Kelly Taylor confessing to being date raped during her freshman year at West Beverly, and Brenda losing her virginity to Dylan at the Spring Dance, but I don't recall anyone performing oral at any point. In fact, I don't remember a single blowjob throughout the course of the entire decade-long run of the show. Not even the hottest slut in the original history of the zip code, the inimitable Valerie Malone, ever played anybody's skin whistle while she was busy trolling for conquests at the Peach Pit After Dark. In fact, the kinkiest thing that ever went down was some light handcuff play that wound up far more comic than sexy (ie: Claire Arnold cuffing herself beneath a protesting Brandon Walsh's "Football: Sports" poster, prompting him to complain that "she's got the body of a centerfold and the personality of a volcano," David Silver begging various cast members swinging by the beach apartment to call a locksmith after attempting to spice up his and the aformentioned Ms. Arnold's sex life with some light impromptu bondage, Steve Sanders confusing law enforcement equipment with Claire's now-infamous sex prop and trapping himself in a hotel room at a police convention). I guess once Steve Sanders arranged to use the empty Walsh house as a porn set, but that mostly involved some women in lingerie while Steve made a cameo as the pizza guy and demonstrated his knack for the bad Italian "I'm-a make-a you a pizza" accent that once successfully discouraged Emily Valentine's prank calling habit, so that likewise falls under the heading of "hilarious" rather than "risqué."
I'm not going to lie. I did get excited when I saw these (heavily Photoshopped) pictures, especially the Kelly Taylor "I Will Not Steal My Best Friend's Boyfriend" hot for teacher shot.
However, I'm not convinced that these two slags fighting over Dylan while in their late thirties is going to be nearly as compelling as it was when Kelly was banging Dylan in the Bel Age Hotel pool or Brenda screamed, "Look, I hate you both. Never talk to me again!" I find it hard to believe that, at 35, Brenda will be able to deliver scathing dialogue like "Kelly, if you're trying to lose your bimbo image, I don't think this is going to help." Kelly is a guidance counselor at West Beverly now, so I'm assuming that she somehow managed to lose her bimbo image. In fact, she lost it starting in season 5 of O.G. Niner, when she started dating Brandon Walsh and became almost as morally insufferable as him.
"I am NOT a bimbo, okay?"
"Whatever you say, Kelly. But I was always taught that if it looks like a duck, and walks like a duck..."
"GO TO HELL!"
I guess I'll find out tonight if I Niner 2.0 and its blowjobs can measure up to the above lofty standards for entertaining trash.
"I am NOT a bimbo, okay?"
"Whatever you say, Kelly. But I was always taught that if it looks like a duck, and walks like a duck..."
"GO TO HELL!"
I guess I'll find out tonight if I Niner 2.0 and its blowjobs can measure up to the above lofty standards for entertaining trash.
Labels: Bev Niner, JerseyGirl, TV
Eight bad reasons to trust CNN sex column advice
Every once in awhile, CNN sneaks a really lame feature article about women onto their site which usually results in my blood boiling. These articles are usually about how you should wait to have sex with a guy as long as possible, don't dress like a slut, and don't make trouble in the workplace even if it's warranted (ie: don't complain about sexual harassment or unfair pay because it will piss off the male establishment). Today I noticed that CNN's arbiters of ladylike behavior have dumped the contents of their most recent menstrual cup for women to thoughtfully peruse, entitled "Eight bad reasons to have sex." The author, who apparently is CNN's sex columnist, declares that "sometimes a lady finds herself doing all the right things for all the wrong reasons" and cautions women to "please extricate yourself as quickly as possible" from sexual congress for any of the following reasons:
Revenge: The most popular very-wrong reason to have sex, revenge sex never ends well.
Hooking up with his best friend because you're angry at your boyfriend will get you nowhere. If you do manage to break up their friendship, then you're stuck with an untrustworthy dude (if he did it to him, he'll do it to you).
Even worse, there's always the (strong) possibility that he went right back and told his buddy and the two of them are now comparing notes over high-fives and hot wings.
I've never been big on revenge sex, because I consider depriving a worthless bitch of my presence to be punishment enough. Besides, doing something like that just indicates to the first asshole that you care enough to get back at him. If I was actually pissed enough to perpetrate some kind of sexually-mediated vengeance scheme (and I can't think of a single instance in which I have been, at least in my adult life...I made out with my ex-girlfriend's new girlfriend when I was 16 and sucked another guy's dick to trick my high school boyfriend into dumping me, but those were youthful indiscretions that don't really count), I'd prefer to serve it more originally than something as trite as banging his BFF. For example, I'd rather go fuck his new girlfriend. Or I'd just fuck him, make a big deal about not enjoying it, and then neg his dick on my triumphant way out the door.
I also don't like the implication that fucking your boyfriend's best friend means you are "stuck with an untrustworthy dude." Since when has revenge fucking been synonymous with revenge dating? Does this author actually think women only have sex in the context of a relationship?
Ego gratification: You must be fine if that scorching hot bartender took you home. Or not. Men have been known to do some unsavory things for physical gratification. The fact that he's willing and able doesn't say squat about your appeal.
I suppose that some women have sex with hot dudes strictly to feel better about themselves. Sadly, there is no shortage of insecure bitches in the world. If there were, the Mystery Method wouldn't work for pussy acquisition and half the dickhead i-banker assholes who employ "negging" as their premiere pick-up method on the New York City bar scene would get laid a lot less. However, I'd encourage the author to consider another possibility besides assuaging her low self-esteem for the woman in this scenario's motives: she took the scorching hot bartender home because she likes fucking scorching hot guys. While I've been known to exchange some knuckle pounds with my girls after nailing a particularly choice specimen, my ego hardly relies on the ass I'm pulling. I consider doing hot dudes perfectly in line with an ambition I share with the immortal Todd "Too $hort" Shaw: a lifelong dream to be a player.
Appliance envy: Your roommate "doesn't believe" in air conditioning. You can't afford premium cable and are addicted to "Weeds." You're desperate to try out Wii Fit. All of these desires are perfectly rational.
However, they are absolutely not worth the price of waking up next to someone you otherwise cannot stand. (Well, except for the AC, but that's only if it's above 100 Fahrenheit.)
Wait, women actually fuck guys for their consumer electronics? That actually happens? I don't know ANYONE who has boned a loser because he has air conditioning. This is a bad reason to have sex, but frankly, you've got bigger problems than whether or not you like your sex partner if you are willing to prostitute yourself for a guy's Showtime subscription. I like "Weeds" too, but not enough to trick for it.
Weight loss: Yes, you may have read those women's magazine articles about how being physically intimate can help you shed pounds. However, a 120-pound woman burns only 57 calories during 15 minutes of sex. That's less than half a Hostess Ho-Ho. The sweat could do nice things for your skin, but your waist will remain the same size.
What kind of sex is this bitch having? Because I am certain that I burn more than 57 calories during 15 minutes of energetic dick riding. I suppose that if you're just laying there like a rag doll passively receiving your partner's weiner in the missionary position, you might burn 57 calories, but that's not how I roll when I hit the sheets. I like to change positions and move around and generally be an active participant in the sexual hotness. I also like to do it more than once a night, so even if this calorie burning count is correct, I'll still burn a solid 200 calories in one night.
Clarity: Ever since you were nine years old and saw that topless Kate Moss Calvin Klein ad, you've had a hunch you were same-sex oriented.
Unfortunately, the thought of sharing this with anyone scares you, so you get yourself a boyfriend. But you can't stop thinking about that ad....
Or, alternatively, you might fuck a dude and realize that you are bisexual. And once again, you don't have to get a BOYFRIEND to do this. Most of my lesbian friends have wanted to try dick at one point or another, but they didn't go through the trouble of actually dating a guy to sate their curiosity, any more than my straight friends got a lesbian girlfriend to experiment with girls. Then again, none of my lesbian friends are so lame as to rely on a fucking Calvin Klein ad for clues regarding their sexual identity.
Mercy: Empathy for a sad soul is one thing; holding an intimate pity party is quite another. Oh, and you know that saying, "no good deed goes unpunished?" It goes triple in this instance. Misery loves company -- good luck getting him out of your apartment.
It's a miracle. I actually agree with the author on this one. Mercy fucks are indeed a bad idea. However, she misses another negative consequence of mercy fucking a mopey sad sack of nuts: not only are they notoriously hard to get rid of, they usually suck in bed.
Quid pro quo: I'm not knocking or talking about the sex professionals out there -- this is for the amateurs among us. Just because he bought you a lobster doesn't mean you need to give up dessert. Catch my drift?
Um, DUH! I guess I probably fall into the "sex professional" category, but even when I was running on the amateur circuit I never put out because a dude bought me dinner. In fact, I distinctly recall one time when I was finishing my first year of college (characterized by my tearing around Amherst College fucking every snotty country club frat boy piece of shit I could get my hands on and not feeling very good about it), I spent the summer working at this Italian restaurant and went on a date with one of the sauté chefs. He bought me a huge steak dinner, drinks, and champagne that we drank on a beach. However, he was also insecure, whiny, depressed, had a bunch of gargoyle posters in his apartment, and was generally unattractive, and I didn't even kiss his ass. I may not have been a total amateur at the time, but I certainly wasn't the hardened slut I am today either, and I knew that his price of entrance to my pussy was more than a fucking filet mignon.
Fame by association: He's famous, you want to be. Contrary to what you might've surmised from that old Pamela Des Barres book, "I'm With The Band: Confessions Of A Groupie," fame is not transmissible through intimate contact. However, lots of other things are, so watch out.
Oh, PLEASE. The last reason on this list is that GROUPIE SEX is a bad idea? The bitch who wrote this must have really been racking her brains to round out the list. How many women have been in a position to even have groupie sex? I have never had the opportunity to fuck someone famous, and if I did, I would hardly be so deluded as to think that banging that person would somehow be my ticket to fame and fortune. However, that wouldn't mean groupie sex wouldn't be fun and/or make for a great story. In fact, groupie sex is probably one situation in which I absolutely should have sex.
The woman who wrote this must really have a low opinion of women's intelligence to think that this list is actually useful advice that bitches should keep in mind when selecting their sex partners. Unbelievably, up until Sarah Palin announced that her daughter isn't the skank who popped out her maybe-fake son Trig because she's already pregnant with another bastard product of skankery, this was the NUMBER FUCKING THREE MOST POPULAR story on CNN.
I honestly can't believe that a bunch of single women were reading this and finding it remotely applicable to their lives. What kind of self-respecting bitch needs to be told not to fuck a guy for his appliances? Fucking DUH, CNN! This is the kind of article that one of my married, actively procreating cousins would read and think, "Hey, I bet Razzy could use this information. I've seen 'Sex and the City'...dating in New York is hard! Maybe this will help her find a husband!" I'm surprised this hasn't actually shown up in my inbox yet, since some of my extended family members are doing whatever they can to make me respectable and help me obtain my MRS degree (which to them is far more valuable than the Ph.D I've pursued instead), even though my prospects for husband catching are now considerably dimmed since passing age 25 and officially becoming an old maid.
In fact, thanks to my lengthy stint as a single woman, I could probably outdo CNN's lame columnist with far less effort in terms of coming up with eight valid reasons not to fuck someone.
1. He's ugly. This should be obvious, but I'm constantly amazed at how many butt-ass hideous trolls get laid regularly by having a modicum of charm. Don't be fooled just because he's nice or funny; fucking ugly guys will get you nowhere but embarrassed.2. He has a girlfriend/wife. Take it from someone who has been "the other woman" on more than one occasion: fucking any dude with a serious significant other brings nothing but trouble.3. He has herpes. This needs no explanation, but just be sure you check that peen for ulcerating lesions before you sit on it.4. He's a dick to your friends. He'll be a dick to you too.5. He lives with his parent(s). Again, this needs no explanation.6. He talks about marriage or kids–and specifically how you might fit into his plans regarding either of these things–before you so much as kiss. RUN, don't walk from this type of douchebag. He's going to be even harder to get rid of than a mercy fuck.7. He has kids. If they're part of his life, you'll be expected to hang out with them, tolerate them, and actually behave in a maternal fashion. If they're not, he's probably a deadbeat. Either way, steer clear.8. He doesn't like dogs. A dog-hater is morally bereft, unreliable, disloyal, and untrustworthy. Stay away.
If CNN insists on giving women advice on their love lives, I strongly recommend they hire me. Not only do I have the experience fucking losers to dish out pragmatic tips for avoiding said bitch-ass punks, I am not stupid enough to think that most of my fellow single bitches are banging guys for their air conditioners.
Labels: retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
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