Friday, October 31, 2008
Horrible movies
I like horror movies a lot. I'm into tits, violence, and nerdy shit, and horror movies usually have at least two out of those three key elements. Thus, I've been very happy about the proliferation of horror movies on the old idiot box leading up to Halloween. Unfortunately, with horror movies being on constantly for a month, channels like AMC run out of decent ones and have to resort to digging through the $0.99 DVD bin to fill up the time. In the course of watching craptastic shitshows like The Rage: Carrie 2 and Hellraiser: Inferno, I've learned a few things about horror movies that are SO fucking bad, they're not even unintentionally funny.
John Carpenter's _________ often=ASS
If a movie title begins with "John Carpenter's" ANYTHING and it doesn't involve Kurt Russell, there is a very good chance that it will suck cheesy balls. Have you ever been unfortunate enough to sit through John Carpenter's Vampires? It involved James Woods being an annoying, leathery old lech while one of the lesser Baldwin brothers banged Laura Palmer from "Twin Peaks" in the midst of some lame ancient-vampire-rising-and-we-have-to-stop-it plot. One time my buddy and fellow horror enthusiast and I spent a solid two hours watching John Carpenter's Shameless Creepshow Knockoff Body Bags and shouting obscenities and derisive jokes at the television. Then we got really, really high to erase our memory of the experience. John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness is only good because the protagonists are a bunch of grad students at the "University of Science" who inexplicably get charged with transcribing scientastic equation-looking gibberish emanating from a big jar of Satan that some priests were keeping in their basement. And don't get me started on the time I endured the audiovisual abortion known as John Carpenter's Ghosts of Mars, which was like the unholy child of Total Recall and a body modification conference sponsored by Hot Topic. Not even the combination of O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson, Pam Grier, and hot-ass Natasha Henstridge could salvage a mere second of that appalling shitshow. However, I was excited to see that the woman who plays Arnie's mom in John Carpenter's Christine is the same actress who played Steve Sanders's lesbian primetime drama TV mom Samantha in "Beverly Hills, 90210," which was an excellent non-Kurt Russell casting choice in my opinion. Not coincidentally, this is also one of the few decent Kurt Russell-free films John Carpenter has made.
Rabies does not make you want to drink human blood
David Cronenberg really should have hit the books harder in his microbiology class. That dude's understanding of rabies virus, parasitology, and infectious disease in general is lacking. Maybe science education in Canada is even crappier than here in the United States of Asskickery.
Go back to Hell, you overpierced losers
Hellraiser movies do not scare me at all. Seriously, you solve a fucking Rubik's cube and open a dimensional portal that lets in a bunch of piercing enthusiasts who look like they just knocked a few back at a S&M leather bar? I would leave that dumb Puzzle Box alone just to keep the pasty PVC-wearing Pinhead set from showing up to piss me off with their crappy style.
STFU, ROB ZOMBIE!
Robert Barlett "Rob Zombie" Cummings (snicker) is probably the most irritating horror movie personality ever. Not only is he constantly accompanied by his vapid skank of a wife, he has this smug attitude that makes me want to gag him with his own unshorn stank dreadlocks. Suffering through even a minute of Sheri Moon Zombie's giggling, monosyllabic critical analysis of the movie Willard is bad enough, but I would rather be trapped in an abandoned knife factory with Michael Myers than topping that off watching Rob Zombie congratulate himself for his fanboy-turned-auteur genius at ruining (John Carpenter's) Halloween. I had enough when Rob Zombie made his first movie House of 1,000 Corpses (which by my count was around 989 corpses short of the body count advertised), a film that amounted to a ninety minute White Zombie video retelling of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Since then, I've had to suffer Rob Zombie shooting off his mouth like he's the next Wes Craven every time he gets to go on camera. If he wants to do something really useful, he could put a sock in it and go get a fucking haircut.
What's really scary? The Oxygen network
I have seen the most horrifying thing on television, and it wasn't even a scary movie. I made the mistake of switching to an episode of "Coolio's Rules," and there is definitely something to be said concerning the adage about curiosity being potentially fatal. Shudder.
So is the E! channel
As long as I'm talking about not-intentionally-scary-but-actually-terrifying pop culture trends, if you're looking for a homicide spree trigger, I highly recommend watching the episode of "The Girls Next Door" where Girl Next Door #2 Bridget plans a "haunted murder mystery" party.
Die, Mac dude, DIE!
Every time I watch Jeepers Creepers, I just pray for the imminent consumption of the douchebag Drew Barrymore-fucking Vassar dropout Justin Long guy who plays the Mac in all Apple commercials. Sadly, this doesn't happen until the very end of the movie. Sorry if I just ruined Jeepers Creepers for those of you who haven't seen this exercise in cinematic assfuckery, but don't worry: the ending is actually more horrifying than just the eye-explanting demise of the Mac dude. After ninety minutes of being a complete dumbass who will not cease with alternate juvenile sibling bickering and obnoxious attempts at collegiate wit coupled with repeated STUPID fucking attempts to get killed (ie: sliding down the pipe which acts as a monster body dump conduit out of a misguided desire to play Hardy Boys), this asshole's shrewish harpy of a sister doesn't get killed as well.
Late sequels are crap
Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare is quite possibly one of the stupidest fucking movies I've ever seen. Seriously, the premise of the film is that the world's hottest foster kid psychiatrist, who happens to be Freddy Krueger's long-lost daughter, decides that it will be beneficial for her psychotic sleep-deprived patient to take a vanload of ragtag misfits back to Elm Street for a nice visit. Once there, they find the creepiest, most cockroach-and-smoking-clown-infested local fair in the history of small town horror movies. The genius visitors observe that conditions are so grim because there aren't any kids around (which sounds like paradise to me, except for the fact that Roseanne and Tom Arnold make a hilarious cameo to explain that this is on account of Freddy, who takes time out of his child-murdering schedule to chalk self-portraits on the town sidewalks.) After a lot of retarded wandering around through the world's lamest high school class/pathetic attempt at bringing whatever sorry fools somehow saw this movie who somehow didn't know the premise ("Freddy 101") and Freddy fucking around with people's demonic dream hearing aids until their heads explode, playing an evil variation of Pitfall on a satanic Atari, and blasting Iron Butterfly simply to provide a context for clumsy peri-homicidal puncraft, these geniuses figure out that the solution is to bust out some dream kung fu on Freddy's ass, which the street kids are luckily proficient in. The main thing we learn from this movie besides "don't go to sleep if you happen to be somehow related to either Freddy or his fucked-up hometown" is that after many sequels, most horror franchises really do need to go the way of the main villain's victims. When Freddy has to resort to terrorizing people with gigantic maps that say "you're fucked," it's time to hang up the knife-fingered glove, get some skin grafts, take up shuffleboard, and hopefully invest in a new sweater. This one is right up there with Friday the 13th VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, in which Jason actually spends most of the movie murdering retarded horny teenagers on a Circle Line cruise rather than anywhere on the fair isle where I reside, in terms of bullshit unintentionally hilarious movie premises.
Mommy issues don't scare me
Ed Gein is only good when you listen to his scary mom say "you'll be nothin' but a blubberin' pantywaist for the RESTA YER LIFE!" or "KILL THE EVIL-TALKER, BOYYYYYYYYY!" and watch flashbacks of her whipping him for reading sexually suggestive comic books in the bathroom. Otherwise, I'm just reminded of how not-scary mama's boy slashers (in other words, 99.99999% of them) are. Frankly, in the original, Jason's MOM was fucking scary. However, once Pamela Voorhees passed the machete she was decapitated by on to her undead son, Jason himself was pretty lame, slow, and lucky to have the dumbest bitches imaginable to easily dispatch. His only stroke of genius or style was his adoption of the hockey mask, but in every other respect Jason completely sucks. I could probably outrun his slow ass, if I were stupid enough to take a job as a summer camp counselor at Crystal Lake in the first place. Given the high (100%) unrepentant slut murder rate there, I imagine that even as an inexperienced and annoying teenager I would probably look elsewhere for employment. Ed Gein's irritatingly cliched control freak of an evangelical Christian mother doesn't hold a candle to Pamela Voorhees. For that matter, Ed Gein doesn't hold a chainsaw to the mama's boy horror villain based on himself. Leatherface hung screaming bitches on meathooks while wearing a patchwork mask of human skin. Ed Gein just shot a bitch after talking to himself a lot, drove her to his house while she feebly slapped at him, acted creepy while she slowly died of sepsis from the non-fatal gunshot wound, and then made some ladies' accessories and a titty vest with her fatass carcass. God, what a fucking pussy. Not scared of you, loser. NEXT!
Pelicula de terror
Halloween Seis: La Maladición de Michael Myers is not nearly as scary as Halloween VI: The Revenge of Michael Myers. "Esta la casa de Michael Myers, es verdad? Serio." This does not keep me up at night, although now that I think about it, it didn't keep me up at night when I saw it in English, either.
Good thing it's Halloween, and as of tomorrow, I'll be back on the football and not throwing stuff at whatever idiotic trash AMC is showing. Happy Halloween, fools!
Labels: movies, nerd alert, retard rage, spooktiness, TV
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Phinish Phelps
I'm officially sick of Michael Phelps. I was actually sick of him the second the swimming part of the Olympics ended, but now I'm REALLY sick of his fug ass showing up everywhere. It was bad enough having my gossip pages cluttered up with reports of all the random pussy he was hauling with the help of his sheaf of gold medals, followed by denials from Michael Phelps's handlers that his Olympic gold turned him into a man-slut of the highest caliber. Now I have to endure him in commercials hawking everything from cell phones to cereal to Visa check cards. The other day when I saw him learning Mandarin with a Rosetta Stone do-it-yourself language lesson, I actually cursed at the television. I heard that he's currently negotiating with world-class dipshit Ashton Kutcher and his succubus wife for a reality show, which I can't imagine will consist of anything besides Michael Phelps eating ungodly amounts of food and flashing his ugly mug for the camera. Meanwhile, Page Six is reporting that he got paid 100K for showing up at some big shot television douchebag's wife's birthday party and swimming some laps.
I have no problem with dudes selling out in order to stack that paper before everyone forgets who they are. Surely, in Michael Phelps's case, he's MAYBE got one more Olympics to remind us all that he's got an allele or two in his genome that confers phenotypic traits more common to aquatic mammals, and then he'll be an afterthought at best. Like Mark Spitz before him, after his Olympic glory days are over we'll only hear about Phelps when he's sitting bitterly in the stands at the 2028 or 2032 Olympics trying to make backhanded compliments concerning his successor to an aging Bob Costas sound slightly less backhanded. I can't blame him for being completely shameless about his media whoring while demand still exists. However, I am over seeing his disturbingly Eli Manning-esque visage hawking Corn Pops, and I can't imagine why any woman who is married to an obviously rich old man would want to live the dream of having him strip down and swim for her. I can think of about 50 guys I'd rather see dripping wet in a Speedo, and most of them would do it for less than a hundred grand.
I'm not sure what it is about Phelps that I'm so tired of, but it may have something to do with the fact that he looks like this one dude I banged last year. This guy and I got along pleasantly enough at most grad school functions, and then one night we fucked while in advanced states of intoxication. After that, the dude proceeded to be an aggressively snubbing asshole every time our paths crossed. When I asked him why he was being such a prick, he informed me that he's a "relationship guy" not mature enough to deal with a no-strings roll in the proverbial hay and that my very existence was something he no longer cared to acknowledge as a result. As I was (not surprisingly) drunk, I decided this would be a great opportunity to show him that nobody–not even some dumbass Michael Phelpsian science nerd in his early twenties with bad social skills and a whole host of personal issues–ignores me...by hurling the contents of a freshly refilled glass of Johnnie Walker all over his button-down. That event has since led to some extremely awkward occasional social run-ins, and a persistent sense of distaste for Michael Phelps ever since. In fact, when I was watching the Olympics at a party and another grad student pointed out the resemblance between this guy and Michael Phelps and followed that with, "So, what does Michael Phelps's dick look like?," I was so perturbed that I couldn't even mitigate my involuntary glowering while shouting "U! S! A! U! S! A!" to celebrate him winning another gold medal for our great country. Between Michael Phelps's media whoring and the consequences of my own personal whoring, I am through with this dude. Maybe in another four years I'll be ready to watch him prostitute himself for the sake of consumerism, but for now this butterface needs to get the fuck off my television.
Labels: capitalism, media whores, Olympics, retard rage, sex, sluts, sportsmen, you're ugly
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
We have a lot to be angry about
I left a smack-talking post on the Facebook page of the dude who I opened a can of ass-beating on in my Fantasy league after destroying him (by one point). Since he joined our league this year and quickly established that he's an even bigger shit-talker than me, I couldn't resist pointing out that not only did I defeat him after he claimed that playing me would be an "automatic win," his favorite team (the Bills) got smoked by the Dolphins.
"Automatic win"? Sha. My team just BARELY beat you only to ensure that you didn't feel bad about your Fantasy suckage. I didn't want to hurt your poor wittle feewings, especially since you're probably doubly depressed that the Bills got ass-raped by the Dolphins too. You have my sympathies, and I won by a meager point to illustrate what a charitable bitch I can truly be.Apparently, this was unwise, because he turned around and wrote a bitchy essay of his own for my Facebook wall:
Before you toot your horn too much, a few things to keep in perspective:While I would dispute his opinions concerning what makes a better Fantasy team, the AFC East being the "second best division in football," and the Arizona Cardinals being the 25% of the NFC West that is not a Pop Warner team (implied...this fool lives in Arizona), I unfortunately cannot come up with much to counter his accusation that I "come from the most wretched sports town on earth." Unfortunately things have indeed been grim sports-wise in the great P-N-Dub. However, I am pleased to see that at least we can produce champions in one area: flipping out NFL coaches.
1. I am an expansion team. You SHOULD destroy me. You barely won against a team that started drafting after 8 others gobbled up the 40 best players. You barely won against an expansion team that had three backups playing (backups on my team and on the ones the played on) due to injury and lack of any quality on waiver wire.
2. The Bills are 5-2 in the second best division in football. The Seahawks are 2-5 in the only division where it appears 75% of it is Pop Warner teams. You come from the most wretched sports town on earth. The Mariners were the worst MLB team, teh Huskies are the worst NCAA, the Sonics left the decrepit area for (cough) Oklahoma, and the Seahawks are the only team in the league that pray the Detroit Lions and Cincinnati Bengals don't die in a plane crash.
3. I still have more total points than you, an arguably better indicator of the best fantasy team.
I rule.
This past weekend, legendary Seahawks quarterback and current Redskins head coach Jim Zorn bugged out at a reporter for looking "ticked off" during a post-game press conference. This isn't quite up to Jim Mora the Elder "PLAYOFFS?!" standards, but it was his second public freak-out of the day after reaming running back Clinton Portis during the second quarter of the Racial Slurs' summary destruction of the hapless Detroit Lions. Zorn isn't Mora grade YET, but he's learning.
And speaking of Jim Mora, guess where he lives now? That's right...he moved his entire collection of shirts with random triangles out to the great P-N-Dub years ago when he was coaching the aforemention disgrace of the Pac-10 UW Huskies, and has remained there, presumably to mentor a whole new generation of angry NFL coaches. Not coincidentally, when our beloved Mike Holmgren waddles off to whichever tidal pool walruses retire to, Mora's own son Jim Mora the Younger will be taking the helm of the Seahawks. The newer Mora has never quite followed in the footsteps of his old man regarding a penchant for uncontrolled raving to the press, but did have a couple promising outbursts when he was head coach of the Falcons. He has also kept those of us who are big enough losers to have crushes on yeast geneticist-looking defensive coordinators entertained with his sideline theatrics (ie: dropping to his knees in visible agony at missed tackles or dropped interceptions). I can only hope that he's laying the groundwork for an epic press conference for sometime in October 2009 should the Seahawks struggle amongst the other heavyweights in the NFC West. Surely it takes years of preparation to come up with exclamations bearing more impact than "Diddly-poo!", "That was a horseshit performance," and "we SUCKED."
Though I don't see Seattle's sports prospects improving anytime soon, at least I can look forward to years of top-tier press conference rage coming from football coaches originating in the P-N-Dub. Frankly, anyone coming from such dismal sports circumstances has something to be angry about, and since our perennial suckage doesn't appear to be ending any time soon, I anticipate a fruitful golden era of NFL coaches responding to press queries with violent outbursts. At least there's one thing to be excited about.
Labels: Fantasia, NFL football, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage, Seahawks, sportsmen
Monday, October 27, 2008
LOL terror
I just read some article about the latest in military intelligence. Specifically, the Army noted that terrorists can use Twitter to orchestrate attacks, if the terrorists Twitter each other about police movements and whatever other logistical details these jackasses need to pay attention to when suicide bombing things or doing other freedom-hating activities. In fact, it's not even your typical Islamic jihadists who might Twitter their way to striking a blow against us infidels. All sorts of nefarious groups could Twitter their way to a terror attack:
"Twitter has also become a social activism tool for socialists, human rights groups, communists, vegetarians, anarchists, religious communities, atheists, political enthusiasts, hacktivists and others to communicate with each other and to send messages to broader audiences," the report said.
I don't use Twitter, but I figured that if evildoers like vegetarians, human rights groups, and all these other hippie types are using it to strike fear in the hearts of freedom-loving Americans everywhere, they're probably using Facebook too. So I checked it out and what do you know? Sure enough, Osama bin Laden is on Facebook and we're both members of the "New York, NY" network! I believe it's really his page, because only a truly depraved, morally bankrupt individual like the mastermind behind 9/11 could speak so highly about "Everybody Loves Raymond."
Yes, "i blow up cars with people in it :P" sounds pretty bin Laden-ish to me. Granted, I don't speak Arabic but from what I've seen of those Al-Jazeera cave videos, bin Laden is always like "zomg usa sux LOLz" while waving around an assault rifle. Besides, it seems pretty reasonable to assume that if the terrorists are using Twitter, they've discovered Facebook. In fact, this is correct, and they're so into it that Al-Qaeda has started a Facebook group! And they have like 40 more members than MY Facebook group (which you should obviously should join immediately if you have not done so yet). That's not cool. I like to think that there are far more Razzyphiles out there than America-hating terror cells waiting to strike at my beloved USA! U! S! A!
I don't know why the U.S. Army is so hung up on the possibility of Twitter terror when it's already thriving on Facebook. If I were them, I'd get off my hypothetical ass and hit the terrorists where it really hurts: their online social network. If my friends' attitude toward Facebook is any indication, bin Laden will be in a state of extreme agitation and confusion if he can't check his news feed to see who all of his terrorist buddies are making Facebook friends with, SuperPoke Ayman al-Zawahri, plant something in his friends' "green patches," take a quiz to determine which "Sex and the City" character he most resembles, or change his status to "Osama bin Laden is wishing this cave got Showtime :(" or "Osama bin Laden is AHAHAHAHA you gluttonous infidels, the world economy is collapsing lolZ u westernized whores." Cut off his Facebook, and cut off his terror network. USA! U! S! A!
Labels: crime and punishment, Facebook, terror, United States of Asskickery
Friday, October 24, 2008
Reaping the rewards of ragging on fat former classmates with shiteous blogs overexposed on the Facebooks
Over the last day or so, I've had a couple concerned Razzyphiles freak out because my site has inexplicably disappeared from the internets. I have no idea why this is going on, except it might be my karmic reward for telling this fat chick I went to high school with that her lame blog was boring and a waste of bandwidth after I got tired of being exhorted via Facebook to read the latest in her completely uneventful life (she's doing homework, her kid wants to go as some bitch from High School Musical for Halloween, etc.). My old buddy Morrissey'sHair told me that he had previously defriended her on MySpace for posting blog entries that he thought were racist and she consequently tried to start some sort of blood feud with him and his twin brother HotLawyer. When he told me this, and I consequently read a few posts in which she discussed her vaginal bleeding at length and how she was involved in some sort of MySpace messaging scandal with her deadbeat baby daddy, I decided to take some action. I called her fat (although "morbidly obese" is probably more accurate), and left a few now-deleted comments suggesting in a not particularly subtle way that she's a terrible writer and the blogosphere would be a better place if her fingers were chopped off so she could no longer type monotonous shit about her kid and how she dropped some Urban Studies night school class because learning about the constitutional issues affecting poor inner-city black people was just too fucking hard and how she's in charge of the Army wives' bake sale club or something. I forgot to mention that her husband is so ugly that he looks like a long-lost relative of Chingy! in head-to-toe camo (although to be fair, I've never met a hot chubby chaser), but I suppose if she ever draws my ire again, I can throw that in, along with my observation that he has bigger tits than I do.
As a result of all this mean-spirited bitchery, she Facebook-defriended me and wrote a post whining about how she can't write about her feelings without criticism from big cruel meanies like me (and by the way, welcome to the internets, chunks), but perhaps the fates didn't think that was punishment enough for me performing what I consider a service to the blog-reading public. Thus, I am paying for my evil ways by having sporadic connectivity to my infinitely superior, far more interesting source of useless bullshit. I'm now directing my antagonism toward my hosting provider to remind them that I don't pay a whopping $7 a month to deprive my loyal Razzyphiles of my literary hotness for even one second. So, if you can actually read this, know that I'm as on top of it like a hot guy after half a bottle of scotch.
Labels: computer incompetence, excuses, Facebook, fat fucks, Morrissey'sHair
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The only thing missing was "Razzy's a pimp" on the Goodyear Blimp
So you may have noticed that I've been remiss the last week or two in posting regularly. In fact, you were probably rending your garments and wailing and gnashing your teeth and other assorted Biblical-type expressions of lament and sorrow that you weren't getting Razzified on the regular. This is because unfortunately I have this thing I'm doing called grad school, and I'm almost done with it. Therefore, not only do I have acute senioritis (or more accurately, sixth-yearitis), I have more bullshit to do than you even want to hear about. I have experiments to run, mice to kill, viruses to grow, cloning projects to finish, two riveting first-author papers to write, and a thesis committee to appease. I was doing the latter today, which is why I spent most of the week cranking out some last minute experiments and preparing to rock their faces off with some hot Power Point action.
Well, not only can I say "mission accomplished" to that notion, but on the VERY SAME DAY I discovered that, after two long years of passaging and plaque assaying and begging my virus to replicate, I gave a mouse a goddamned cold! And not some bullshit real-time PCR assay showing RNA replication like certain competitors of mine managed to get published (in a fucking Nature journal, of all places), but actual, honest-to-God, infectious motherfucking rhinovirus that kills cells and will give you a cold, make you miss work or school, and possibly exacerbate your asthma, COPD, or cystic fibrosis. REAL rhinovirus, not some pussified replicative form of the viral genome.
I know this doesn't sound like much, but I'm seriously having a fucking awesome day. In fact, this is one of the most awesome days in recent grad school memory. In fact, I can't think of a day when I was happier in grad school. I suppose the day I graduate will be better than this, but for now, I'm right up there in O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson territory regarding "good day" status. This is the science nerd equivalent of looking in the mirror and ascertaining that there are no jackers in sight while getting a beep from Kim, who reputedly can fuck all night. This is like no barking from the dog and mama cooking the breakfast with no hog (if I were a fake-me-out Muslim like Ice Cube apparently was when he released The Predator, anyway). It's like picking up the cash flow, then playing bones and being the individual skillful enough to be repeatedly yelling "domino." I probably won't be getting laid tonight with anyone who can fuck all night or doing any backyard gambling, but I will at least be having beers with J-Sexy, who apart from my PI is the one person in the entire world capable of deeply appreciating exactly how fucking mindblowingly, orgasmically, phenomenally awesome THIS is:
I know, I know...try to resist masturbating furiously at the sight of such a sexy piece of data until you are in a private place more appropriate for that sort of activity. I'm off to drink some beer and eat a fucking cheeseburger. And come up with topics for lots of interesting posts that I'll have slightly more time to throw together every couple of days, of course. Thanks for your patience with me being an absentee blogger, and please feel free to have a drink or fifty in my honor!
Labels: epidemic geekery, excuses, grad school bullshit, I LOVE IT, rap, Razzification, science, viruses rule
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
HEY! YOU! GUYS! You suck at apostrophes
I have no idea why, but periodically Sesame Workshop drops into my hood to disrupt all the parking on St. Nicholas Avenue by filming new episodes of "The Electric Company." This is a little weird, because whenever stuff is filmed on my street it usually either involves the cast of "Law and Order: SVU" pretending to bust some perv in the park or some kind of movie about crack and/or gang violence, like the low-rent straight-to-video movie that caused my dog Caesar to run afoul of Tom Berenger's production assistant. As a children's educational program on PBS, "The Electric Company" is a bit of a departure from the usual urban crime-oriented fare that gets shot in Sugar Hill.
So let me get this straight...the person who wrote this letter is planning on teaching the language arts to children "age's six to nine"? I didn't realize that age could own numbers. I guess this must be part of some advanced new teaching strategy, because there's no way that an educational series that "strives to encourage language and vocabulary development" would fuck up their punctuation so flagrantly. Granted, I hate children and don't really care whether they are proficiently literate or not, but those children will grow up to annoy me with their poorly punctuated blog comments and e-mails. Therefore, I can't abide "The Electric Company" running up on the telly with a shout of "HEY YOU GUYS!" and proceeding to instruct kids on the finer points of misusing apostrophes and confusing the plural and possessive forms of a word. When these fools are double parked all over my neighborhood come Thursday, I'm going to march right up to their head bitch in charge with this letter, a red pen, and an indignant sense of grammatical superiority. Cancel this shit.
I don't really care about parking disruptions because I don't have a car, although both children AND public television can, in the words of the inimitable Kelly Taylor to some unworthy frat boy at the Halloween party where she was later almost date-raped by a different frat boy, "get into Daddy's Lexus, drive to the Santa Monica pier, and just keep on going." PBS sucks! With the notable exception of the hotness that was "Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego?," I didn't even like any of the children's programming on PBS when I was a child. "Sesame Street" was for dumbasses who couldn't count or spell, and anyway I learned how to do both from books, not big annoying puppets with imaginary elephant friends. Even at the age of five or six I was convinced that I would greatly prefer Big Bird stuffed, trussed, roasted, and served with gravy than teaching me facile lessons about friendship, singing songs about phonics lessons I'd long since mastered, and sending the message that obnoxious, pathological self-delusion is okay. Fuck Big Bird and the fucking stupid street he lives on, and fuck PBS running pledge drives to support this trash, especially considering these shows fail miserably in the education department anyway. Certainly the correspondence issuing forth from their production staff leads me to believe that their education credentials are decidedly lacking.
As I was walking the dogs last night, I noticed that "The Electric Company" had taped letters to all the lampposts explaining their presence in the neighborhood:
So let me get this straight...the person who wrote this letter is planning on teaching the language arts to children "age's six to nine"? I didn't realize that age could own numbers. I guess this must be part of some advanced new teaching strategy, because there's no way that an educational series that "strives to encourage language and vocabulary development" would fuck up their punctuation so flagrantly. Granted, I hate children and don't really care whether they are proficiently literate or not, but those children will grow up to annoy me with their poorly punctuated blog comments and e-mails. Therefore, I can't abide "The Electric Company" running up on the telly with a shout of "HEY YOU GUYS!" and proceeding to instruct kids on the finer points of misusing apostrophes and confusing the plural and possessive forms of a word. When these fools are double parked all over my neighborhood come Thursday, I'm going to march right up to their head bitch in charge with this letter, a red pen, and an indignant sense of grammatical superiority. Cancel this shit. Labels: destroy all children, grammar gestapo, Harlem world, TV
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sweet sobaka
I think Vladimir Putin is basically a total dipshit. For one thing, no matter how many absurd I-wish-I-was-Ernest-Hemingway pictures he takes of himself fly fishing, he seems like the kind of dude who would be in a movie from the 80s as some sort of evil, capitalism-decrying Communist party stalwart who couldn't be trusted and whose sole reason for existing is to wipe America off the map. Indeed, since the officer and a hot piece John McCain cannot say a sentence about Putin without including the words "KGB" or "apparatchik," that's obviously exactly what he is even though he appears different than the red-faced blusterers of Russian rulers past. He may not look like a giant vodka-swilling bear in a fur hat, and he might like to show off his skinny topless chest doing macho outdoorsy stuff, and he may have appointed a tiny Deep Purple-loving Ukrainian-independence suppressing lawyer as his successor, but that doesn't mean he's somehow different from any other asshole pinko motherfucker who would invade Colorado via fleets of innocent-looking Aeroflot jets and declare war on Patrick Swayze, Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson.
However, I have now realized that Putin has one redeeming quality. While perusing the news stories from the other inferior excuses for countries that populate the world, I came across an article describing how Putin loves his doggy so much that he made her a special GPS tracker so she'll never get lost. Okay, the article just said he made her a GPS tracker and Putin disputed with his deputy prime minister whether or not his sweet dogger Koni liked the fact that "her free life is over," but still...I assume he outfitted his dog with a satellite tracker to keep Koni from getting lost and ending up in Siberia or something because he would be devastated by her absence.
A guy with a precious puppy like Koni here can't be completely evil. I'm cool with Putin from now on so long as he always appears in pictures with this doggity sweetness. In fact, just let Koni take over for Putin. If that bitch were calling the shots, Putin would have plenty of free time to pose for stomach-churning topless macho propaganda photos and everyone would want to get all diplomatic with Russia because Koni is SO FUCKING CUTE! The world would win. Koni for commisar!
Labels: assholes, doggity style, international intrigue, politics
Friday, October 17, 2008
A dangling C.H.U.D.
I've gotten a couple e-mails regarding a certain SUPER hot photo from the master debate the other evening. It seems that despite the widespread circulation of this shot on the internets, my mom, GayMan, and a couple of random Razzyphiles just had to e-mail me to make sure it didn't escape my notice that the officer and a hot piece known as Senator John McCain (R-AZ) looked like he was being transmogrified into one of the creatures dwelling in the fell city of Minas Morgul after catching a glimpse of old Pointy Pelvis Obama's ass:
I don't know how I missed McCain doing this live, because I certainly watched the debate. It may have something to do with the fact that I watched it at a bar and had already knocked back a Dos Equis or fifty. I also was thrown off because during the debate there had been a lot of cheering for McCain, and I thought maybe I was in good company. Then, however, when the cheering continued after the debate I realized that everyone was getting excited about the Phillies game on one of the other bar TVs, and as usual I was the only McCainiac around. In any event, I had other things on my mind than spotting fleeting moments when McCain apparently gave in–if only for a moment–to his insatiable craving for smug, condescending Illinois senator flesh. I wish I had seen it, though, because I've been saying for a long time that we need a C.H.U.D. in the White House. For one thing, a cannibalistic, possibly undead president would strike a lot more fear into the hearts of evildoers everywhere than a brainy law professor. For another, I'd like to see those socialist homos in Europe complain about our warmongering ways while facing the threat of being ravenously devoured by our fearless leader for their gall. My election preference continues to be validated by Senator McCain's total awesomeness. JOHN! MC! CAIN! JOHN! MC! CAIN!
*RAZZY Edit: No sooner did I publish this than I was asked, "What the f is a C.H.U.D.?" Apparently I am the only one around here with any appreciation for the cinematic masterpieces of the 1980s. C.H.U.D. is a movie about some John McCain-looking things with glowing eyes that live under New York City in the abandoned subway tunnels and occasionally venture up from their subterranean digs to eat hot 80s chicks with spiral perms. It's a really realistic movie, because I can't tell you how many narrow escapes I have made from hungry C.H.U.D.s since moving to New York six years ago. Take a gander at the awesome trailer for C.H.U.D. and I guarantee that not only will you IMMEDIATELY rush to Blockbuster and rent it, you will see my reasoning that a C.H.U.D. would make a better president than a community organizer. TRUST.
Labels: Barack Obama, John McCain, movies, oh the horror, politics
Thursday, October 16, 2008
To all the Joe Sixpacks I've fucked before...
Last night when I was watching officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain debate old Pointy Pelvis Obama, I have to admit that I got a little tired of hearing about "Joe the Plumber" and his fate. Yeah, yeah, I get it...Obama's a pinko who hangs out with ex-terrorist professors and is in bed with the Trotskyite community organizations my BFF LL Cool Jew used to work for. In fact, I'm getting a little tired of hearing about all these "Joe" characters. The McCain campaign needs to quit naming the average hardworking American "Joe" because it's getting old.
I know about the kind of (blue collar PWT) American McCain is referring to, because I grew up surrounded by Joe Sixpacks and Joe the Plumber, except none of them were named Joe. There's my uncle Don the Boeing machinist, my dad Rick the schoolteacher and former Teamster/dairyman/truck driver, my uncle Beau the Frito Lay deliveryman, my uncle Merle the carpenter, my uncle Gene the mental hospital handyman, my cousin Josh the county sheriff, my uncle John the shipping clerk, my cousin Kyle the drug addict/petty criminal, and so forth. Then, when I grew up and returned to my humble county of origin after college, I encountered plenty more Joe Six- Twelve- 24-Packs in the greater Tacoma-Puyallup non-metropolitan area. Among others, I fucked Chris the roof shingler, Carson the Alaska tour guide and metalworker, Don the piercing and tattoo apprentice, L.J. the meth dealer (my discovery of his particular small business venture marked the end of our affair), and Brent the day laborer. None of these guys, who I presume are the people McCain and Palin are talking to and about, are named "Joe."
Furthermore, the majority of these guys probably don't vote, and many of them probably don't pay taxes, much less care about tax breaks. Mike the proud deadbeat dad/drywall hanger was way more interested in fucking me up the ass while we watched WWE Smack Down (I was REALLY drunk) than he probably ever would be about the middle class share of the tax burden. Furthermore, since he actually bragged that he couldn't be bothered paying his child support, I doubt he was on top of getting anything out to the IRS. When Nick the landscaper came over and got shitfaced with me on two $7 bottles of wine that he pronounced "classy" prior to banging me to the point of vomiting said wine into my hand as I ran to the bathroom (that was obviously the classiest part), I sincerely doubt that he was concerned about the merits of trickle-down versus trickle-up economics. In fact, his main concern after I gargled the regurgitated cheap merlot out of my mouth and we resumed chafing rug burns into my ass was that my dog Caesar ate his entire bag of weed while we were screwing on my living room floor.
These "Joe Sixpacks" aren't even watching the debate to hear the message Senator McCain is trying to say to them and on their behalf. They probably don't even know there's a debate going on. To give you an idea of their general awareness of the greater world, Jeff the airplane mechanic, a dude who was trying to court me in a clumsy and ineffective way, asked if I'd ever heard of Thai food. Not if I'd ever tried Thai food or if I liked Thai food, but if I'd ever HEARD of it at all. I told him that I heard rumors of a mysterious land in southeast Asia called Thailand, and that they have food there. He completely missed my sarcasm and thought this represented an opportunity to introduce me to rare culinary treats like coconut curry and spring rolls. I decided that he was too dumb and annoying to continue banging, and dumped him before he could make a big show about putting me face to face with an exotic delicacy like a plate of fucking pad thai, and he commenced stalking me all over Tacoma, which culminated in him molesting me at a bar and my slapping him and getting him thrown out. Wherever Jeff the airplane mechanic is now, I have no doubt that his taste for mee krob comprises his sole interest in foreign policy, and he could give a shit less what ACORN does or what the Bush tax cuts are or what either candidate thinks about incorporating clean coal technology into their energy plans. Like most of the Joe Sixpacks I know, he's probably more interested in the Seahawks injury report than overhauling the tax code. I would wager that his sole expertise on the matter of taxes is that if you drive to the Puyallup reservation, you don't have to pay them on your cigarettes or chaw.
John McCain needs to quit talking to Joe Sixpack and Joe the Plumber and whoever else. He needs to start talking to his other constituencies. For example, I would like to hear him say something about how he's going to make sure Razzy the Impoverished Skankified Microbiology Graduate Student won't have any problem whatsoever getting an insanely high-paying job when she graduates, so that she can continue to look snobbishly down at all the Joe Sixpacks she bones whenever she's home in the P-N-Dub. They obviously need a fourth debate where John McCain can address this small but critical part of the American voting public, because these Joes have been hogging all the attention.
Labels: John McCain, P-N-Dub, politics, PWT, sex, sluts
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The silver lining
Where is the tabloid magazine footage of one Ms. Jessica Simpson wearing one of her vile pink Cowboys jerseys marching snottily into the stadium to watch her excessively lauded boyfriend Tony Romo get owned by the likes of the Arizona Cardinals? I was expecting to see Jessica rocking a giant dipteran pair of sunglasses and looking like a heavily Mystic tanned, Cowboys logo-adorned, Barbified version of Gregor Samsa with lots of Texas-sized hair extensions and a fetish for handbags large enough to stow a side of beef in, strolling into her luxury suite ready to spread her myiasitic plague of fumbling, badly held snaps, and interceptions to her man once again.
Oddly, Jessica Simpson was nowhere to be found when the Cowboys lost to the the Cards, as she was off singing cuntry music to rednecks in North Carolina at some lame NASCAR race. I found this hard to believe, since it seems that Jessica will neither shut up about Tony Romo or be fewer than 100 yards from him at any given time, but apparently she needed more money to spend in the NFLshop.com Cowboys team store, so she was off titillating the Dale, Sr.-worshiping elite by suggestively working this nozzle-thingy prior to yowling at them in her affected hick twang:
Proving, however, that she's really got her accursed claws deep into Romo's nutsack, he sprained his pinky in spite of her absence and is out for the month! As Brad Johnson, who is currently competing with Kerry Collins, Jeff Garcia, and Brian Griese for the title of New Vinny Testaverde, will now be taking snaps for the Cowboys, I couldn't be happier. For one thing, I hate the fucking Cowboys. For another, any misery befalling NFC teams besides the absolute disgrace that the Seahawks' season has been thus far is fine by me. I encourage Jessica Simpson to continue dating Tony Romo so that her malignant misfortune can eat him up like a cancer. This is the silver lining to what has been a very depressing first quarter of the NFL season.
Oh, and Jessica...just in case it doesn't work out with Tony Romo, I hear Ben Roethlisberger is single. I'm sure the Shitsburgh Steelers would really benefit from your inherent anti-quarterback destructive powers. I know you and Tony are tight, but just in case he gets sick of sitting on his couch watching his team lose while you jabber about purses and fashion during his convalescence, you might think about giving Big Ben a call. Just a suggestion.
Labels: I LOVE IT, media whores, NFL football, sluts, sportsmen, Stealers suck
The economy isn't the only thing trending toward TOTAL SHIT
I was idly checking my e-mail the other day when my eyes strayed across the link that Gmail read the contents of my correspondence and decided I would like to click upon. Due to a fair amount of dick-swinging shit-talkery about last Sunday's Seahawks abortion game between myself and other various football buddies, there were enough references to the Green Bay Packers (ie: "the Hawks will melt those Cheeseheads like a pot of bitch-flavored fondue"), Google's e-mail readers decided that I'd be attracted to the following statement: "Wear Zubaz in Packers Colors! BUY NOW!"
"Zubaz?" I said, as the term was vaguely familiar. It reminded me of something in my childhood...something from a simpler time, when I carried an Esprit tote bag, wore my hair in a spiral perm to disguise the decidedly not neon (and therefore not stylish) neckstrap for the headgear my sadistic orthodontist forced me to wear to school, and when I was awkward and afraid of boys and knew the song "U Can't Touch This" so well that I could do that really fast "it's-Hammer-go-Hammer-MC-Hammer-yo-Hammer-and-the-rest-can-go-and-play-can't-touch-this" part without messing up. So I decided to investigate further, and almost as soon as I clicked the link, I remembered EXACTLY what Zubaz are. I know right now the world is a grim and uncertain place, but things aren't so bad that THIS needs to come back:
Granted, there are parts of Puyallup where these pants have never gone away. Usually they're found waddling into Wal-Mart in old school Seahawks colors and/or UW Huskies colors (and trust that purple and gold do not go well with morbid obesity) accessorized with a fanny pack, a prodigious gut, and a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt. However, excepting certain dark trailer parks in unincorporated Pierce County, Washington, I had long since relegated Zubaz along with Hypercolor, International News logo shirts, and stirrup stretch pants to the class of trends that are dead and gone.
Granted, there are parts of Puyallup where these pants have never gone away. Usually they're found waddling into Wal-Mart in old school Seahawks colors and/or UW Huskies colors (and trust that purple and gold do not go well with morbid obesity) accessorized with a fanny pack, a prodigious gut, and a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt. However, excepting certain dark trailer parks in unincorporated Pierce County, Washington, I had long since relegated Zubaz along with Hypercolor, International News logo shirts, and stirrup stretch pants to the class of trends that are dead and gone.
Thus I was most dismayed to see that Zubaz have made a "proud return," with their signature "bold patterns and classic styles" (translation: zebra, zebra, and more zebra). I don't need to see low-rent Paris Hilton and Ryan Reynolds knockoffs trying to convince me that this is any better a sportswear-mediated fashion statement now than it was 15 years ago. Fuck Zubaz and the zebra they rode in on. I'm not buying it.
Labels: I'm Not Buying It, neon, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, you're ugly
Friday, October 10, 2008
If I don't do nothin', I'm-a ball
My reputation for expert braininess continues to precede me. When Razzyphiles find they are having a little trouble, they can of course go read my instructional essay on the topic. Unfortunately, sometimes specific situations arise that necessitate going straight to the source for assistance with all their cocksucking needs, and I'm happy to oblige. That's exactly what happened when I received this e-mail today:
Razzy, my roommate and I have been arguing this same point over and over for about a week now. Since I hold your opinion of fellatio techniques in the highest regard, I have come to you. My roommate is convinced that putting a ball entirely in ones mouth during oral sex is "unnecessary and gross". I say, when it comes to oral sex, you get what you give. My argument for putting a ball (or two) into my mouth occasionally during fellatio is that I love to hear my name being screamed. Not that having a ball in my mouth makes him scream, but the overall effect of a quality blowjob (which necessitates switching it up a bit).
Thoughts?
Well, I could not agree with the author more. I count myself staunchly in the pro-ball-or-two-in-mouth camp for the exact reason the author describes: it's important in the bedroom in general to make like David Silver and switch it up, and assuredly when demonstrating one's sword-swallowing abilities. A lot of girls think that sucking dick is just that: sticking a dick in your mouth and applying some suction. Actually, a lot of girls think it's just sticking the head in your mouth and jerking the guy off because doing some actual throat work is a hassle, and I think that's both a lazy cop-out and indicative of a greater character flaw. In cocksucking and in life, I have no respect for slags who strive for mediocrity at best. Besides, as I've said before many times, it's called a fucking job for a reason! It's not supposed to be easy, but hard work has its rewards. FDR once said that "happiness lies in the joy of achievement and the thrill of creative effort," and I wholeheartedly concur. As the author notes above, you get what you give. Greater investment will yield greater returns, and in this day of collapsing stock markets, getting paid back in gratification for a well-rounded BJ may be one of the few remaining low-risk investments left to us.
While putting balls in your mouth is optional, it shouldn't be discounted as "unnecessary." It may not be necessary for a basic blowjob, but as I already mentioned, any remotely admirable woman isn't going to aspire to boring the dude whose dick she's sucking with her banal, uninspired, lazy technique. Blowjobs are like cars in this way; sure, a boring, sensible Kia Rio with vinyl seats, manual windows, and a tape deck will get you where you need to go, but wouldn't you enjoy riding in some top of the line S-class Benz with fancy leather interior, a custom sound system, and every tricked-out car accoutrement in the book more? Sucking on balls is the built-in GPS navigation system of a blowjob: it's not required, but it sure does make the whole package seem a lot more luxurious and indulgent.
Also, testicle-mouth interfacing isn't gross. I can only imagine that the chick who attests that it is is relatively inexperienced, because in the pantheon of nasty sexual stuff, scrotum sucking is pretty tame. Obviously any chick who thinks it's sick has never rimmed a dude or stuck a finger up a guy's ass. I'll admit that most fellas' family jewels have a certain pungent muskiness to them, but that's actually appealing to someone like me who is a connoisseur of stinky aged semi-soft European cheeses. Apart from the occasional annoying inadvertant pube-flossing that can occur when a stray hair gets dislodged in your mouth, there's really nothing too gross about having a set of nuts on your tonsils. In fact, that reminds me of Dr. Dre/Snoop lyrics, which in turn makes me feel comforted and nostalgically joyful.
So, ladies, take my advice as a certified Head Doctor who has performed many a surgery: my official position is that when you are giving some brain, make sure you have a ball.
Labels: correspondence, perversion, Razzyphiles, sex, WWRD
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Once again, Cheese Sauce proves that his followers are the dumbest
I was reading the news today, and as usual it was all fucking bad. The economy is crumbling thanks to years and years of getting unapologetically sodomized by Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, who despite their friendly, folksy names sound like a couple of serious motherfucking bastards. I was just going to click over to the BBC to read about the collapse of the credit markets in Europe to add a little international flavor to my general feeling of dread and impending doom when I noticed a catchy title in a sidebar ad:
Wait...Time magazine's business writers have decided to blame GOD for the imminent Greater Depression about to swallow the entire civilized world? I can understand why people still solvent enough to enjoy luxuries like print magazines read The Economist these days instead of Time, because that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. It's not like God took a break from being omnipotent to moonlight as an unscrupulous broker at Countrywide. Rolling my eyes, I went to the article expecting to continue audibly scoffing at my laptop.
Instead of continuing to think about the author's stupidity, however, I was instead filled with annoyance and anger not at the author, but at those goddamned irritating evangelical Christians! Apparently, this bullshit is all their fault thanks to something called the "Prosperity gospel" that a bunch of them subscribe to. This is the notion that if you open your wallet to Christ so that your megachurch can buy a new IMAX screen for in-service laser shows praising Cheese-Sauce Crasst, you'll be rewarded by getting approved for a mortgage that you can't afford and will assuredly default on should the economy take a downturn–kind of like the precipitous faceplant it's doing now!
Granted, this policy isn't explicitly stated by most evangelical ministers. However, an expert interviewed for the article explained that this is spelled out in facile Jesus-flavored suggestions that even the most slow-witted Pentecostal Joe Sixpack can understand:
Granted, this policy isn't explicitly stated by most evangelical ministers. However, an expert interviewed for the article explained that this is spelled out in facile Jesus-flavored suggestions that even the most slow-witted Pentecostal Joe Sixpack can understand:
"The pastor's not gonna say, 'Go down to Wachovia and get a loan,' but I have heard, 'Even if you have a poor credit rating, God can still bless you — if you put some faith out there [that is, make a big donation to the church], you'll get that house or that car or that apartment.'"
The Catholic church was practicing the medieval equivalent of this back in the day, except instead of the faithful donating their cash for corrupt ministers to buy Mercedes to snort meth and bang underage boys in, the faithful donated their farthings for corrupt clergymen to maintain lavish residences for their mistresses and instead of being promised home ownership, they were promised a guaranteed spot in heaven. Eventually, even the feudal peasants (the Joe Sixpacks of their time) of the Middle Ages caught on that this was a bullshit scam, and hence Protestants exist at all. I'm just relieved that this time around the Catholics have nothing to do with all hell breaking loose. Luckily, we learned our lesson about the dangers of selling indulgences six centuries ago. Too bad these holy rolling heretics aren't up on their history, because if they had been maybe they wouldn't have tried to better their own financial situations via this Prosperity gospel bullshit and caused the global credit markets to fucking fail.
I am obviously a Christian being that I count myself among the O.G. Jesus worshipers. Since the most holy and apostolic JP Dos was running things over at the Holy See, I was encouraged that we'd finally gotten past doing globally destructive bullshit like starting centuries-long holy wars and torturing Jews, intellectuals, and anyone else who did things slightly differently. Unfortunately, it seems these evangelicals have picked up where we Catholics left off in the global shitshow department. All these evangelicals love to talk about how awesome the apocalypse is going to be, and how great it's going to be when Jesus returns. I wouldn't get too excited if I were them, because frankly, if I were Jesus, I'd be getting so sick of my followers perpetrating worldwide catastrophic disaster in my name that if I had to get off my ass and leave heaven because of it, I'd just wipe the troublesome losers off the map like John McCain wants to do with our nation's bad mortgages. So quit doing anything in Jesus's name except praying, because I don't want to get Armageddoned along with economically fucked thanks to the investment strategies of the fundamentalist devout.
Labels: assholes, capitalism, Catholicism, crazies, Dear God, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Happy 49th birthday to my firstborn!
Today I am sad because my beloved biological dog Caesar turns 49! Okay, he actually turns 7, but that's 49 in dog years. Apart from a few stray gray hairs around his sweet little muzzle, Caesar has hardly aged and is as roguishly handsome as he's always been. This is comforting to me because the thought of Caesar passing on soon (the average lifespan for German Shepherds and Rottweilers both is 10 years) to doggy heaven is one I find extraordinarily painful to contemplate. I'm getting all teary just thinking about it, and you can ask anyone who has made the mistake of mentioning Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows around me: dog mortality is a topic that I am emotionally VERY ill-equipped to handle. If I get all choked up just hearing the "Here, Yeller! Come back, Yeller! Best doggone dog in the West" song, you can imagine what happens when I consider the prospect of my own best doggone dog transcending this mortal coil. I've brought this dog from 5 pounds of fuzzy, blue-eyed, giant-pawed puppy cuteness to the 110 pounds of distinguished debonair canine that he is today, and he might as well be my fucking kid. I love this dog like a child, and I can't believe he's middle aged. Does this dog look like he's almost over-the-hill to you?
After you finish criticizing my woeful photography skills, you might see in Caesar's happy, goodfy face that he's still full of youthful spirit. Despite his advancing years, he continues to enjoy activities such as chasing sticks and squirrels, leaping joyfully around St. Nicholas Park like some kind of Alsatian-Bavarian gazelle, humping Chingy! into submission, snapping at flies, and barking out the window at the evil neighbors. He really hates those neighbors. They're always doing shady shit like walking around their apartment and adjusting their window blinds. They're up to something, and Caesar will never stop barking until he exposes them for all the nefarious existing that they do. This is Caesar's primary job, and he was up early at work even on his own birthday. He was also busy doing his secondary job, which is acting as a living pillow for his extremely hungover mommy to clutch desperately while trying to convince herself to get the fuck out of bed and go to lab.
Caesar is the best dog in the entire world, and I'm totally going to swing by a pizza place and bring him home a big slice of pepperoni (his favorite people food of all time) to celebrate. You only turn 49 in dog years once! Happy birthday, Caese!
Labels: aging, Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Blog Action Day 2008: Ending (Razzy's) poverty
Last night, I was logging in to the website that tracks my statistics for me, and for some reason decided to click over to their blog. Probably because while getting my internets Razzification on I was watching Monday Night Football, and listening to Tony Kornheiser hollering at Ron Jaworski half-assedly about a lengthy illustrated montage celebrating Gus Frerotte's storied career makes me mildly crazy. I was irritated to see that the people who run my free statistic-tracking service are a bunch of annoying e-do gooders participating in something called "Blog Action Day."
Not only does Blog Action Day sound like one of the least active forms of obnoxious ineffective philanthropy the bloggers of the internets could engage in, it sounds like a complete and total waste of time. Most of the blogs that will participate probably have even fewer readers than the five of you who come here for your daily dose of (so awesome it rocks your face off) useless bullshit, so it's not like they're going to bring a lot of attention to the problem of poverty.
While I deeply empathize with those suffering from its effects (as making less than $30,000 a year in New York City certainly allows me to count myself among the ranks of the destitute), there's a reason why the Blogosphere was not consulted when Congress had to bail out the highest priority group of the impoverished: Wall Street. Bloggers are all poor as fuck and they don't know shit about ending poverty! Even many of the successful ones hardly make any money from their websites. Pick a random blog author and ask how much they make with their online venture. They are doing exceptionally well if they can even pay their utility bills with their blogging profits. Certainly all these bloggers can draw attention to the issue just by writing their own life story, but if they knew the first thing about ending poverty, they wouldn't be fucking poor. The last thing these fools are going to do is somehow end poverty at the fucking FED by writing "poverty is just aweful and shud end NOW lol!" blog posts, thus stimulating the economy, increasing employment, and reducing the welfare rolls all around.
However, Blog Action Day can benefit at least one person in the financial department. It might not do much in terms of meaningful action to end poverty, but at least it creates a great opportunity for me. While all the other sources of useless bullshit across the internets are writing about how society can end the proliferation of beggarly types, I'll write about something totally different, like threesomes or Red Dawn or R. Kelly. Then when everyone is bored of reading banal post after banal post about poverty, they'll all come to RAZZY.org to read about whatever awesome alternative I feel like blabbing about, a few of them will click my useless "FIND SINGLE PEOPLE AGES 18-84 TO FUCK NOW!!!!!!!!" text ads, and I'll totally get a check for $10 instead of $5 for October. By NOT writing about poverty on October 15th, I'll be taking meaningful action to ameliorate poverty...my own poverty. Thank you for the opportunity to capitalize on everyone else's misguided and ineffective sense of altruism, Blog Action Day!
Labels: capitalism, down with OPB (other people's blogs), internet domination
Monday, October 06, 2008
My brave, stoic, it's-all-gonna-be-okay face
No, it's not because of the failing economy, the War in Iraq, the lack of affordable health care for all Americans, or any other reason why it sucks to exist in the present era...it's because I had to sit in a New York City football bar after the New York football Giants summarily smote the Seahawks' ruin on the proverbial mountainside while wearing a Seahawks jersey. I think the picture my friend I'mNotRussianGoddammit took of me sometime in the third quarter sums it all up precisely:
I realize that the above photograph is certainly not the most attractive photo of me that's ever been committed to iPhone. However, it is one of the few photographs in existence of me putting on a brave face in spite of the shameful fact that I'm wearing the jersey of and cheering for a team that didn't even show up to play. Nobody took a picture of me after the Seahawks got their asses kicked by the Packers last January, but it would have looked something like this (although I take back what I said about my attractiveness in this state, because if memory serves correctly, .the Seahawks may not have shown up at Lambeau Field, but a hot dude with a thing for blondes showed up at the bar I watched the game at, took me home, and consoled me with an epic dicking). Sadly, I did not get laid by a sympathetic Giants fan, and spent my evening watching the various NFL pundits recap exactly how much stank ass the Seahawks sucked. During "Football Night in America" halftime, Bob Costas announced that "the Giants just CLOBBERED the Seahawks," and I actually thought this was an understatement. The Giants bent the Seahawks over and ass-raped them like a prag in a prison shower.
Hopefully the Sea-chickens will start acting more like the birds of prey for which they are named and save our season by kicking some Cheesehead ass next week, because my mental state can't take many more episodes like the one that occurred yesterday.
Labels: NFL football, Seahawks, tragedy, you're ugly
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Dallas Cowboys
...because thanks to your quarterback's love life, it tolls for fucking thee! As of last weekend, the Cowboys are no longer undefeated thanks to the Washington Anti-Native American Racial Slurs, and we all know who to thank. No, it's not the dynamic new offense brought to the Redskins by their new coach, Seahawks legend Jim Zorn (!). It's not the defensive upgrades the Redskins made by adding the likes of Jason Taylor to their roster. In fact, this Redskins victory has nothing to do with the Redskins at all. It doesn't even really have anything to do with the Cowboys directly, at least not with their game on the field.
No, Tony Romo's girlfriend AKA the Cowboys' bad luck charm showed up to work her nefarious magic on their record:
Though she's not wearing that loathsome pink jersey which originally cursed the Cowboys and drew the disdain of the highly opinionated Terrell Owens, it appears that Jessica showing up AT ALL is enough to usher in a Cowboys loss. I sincerely hope that Jessica shows up for every Cowboys game for the rest of the season because a 3-14 Cowboys season is something that will always make me smile contentedly. Please continue standing by your man, Sloppy Tits.
Labels: celebrities, media whores, NFL football, sluts
Friday, October 03, 2008
And in other science media news...
I've noticed that on some completely non-science websites (like fucking GAWKER!), snarky bloggers noticed this week's front and back covers of Nature and are questioning whether or not this Sigma-Aldrich ad with the yellow and chocolate Labrador retrievers isn't just a little TOO similar to the front cover with McCain and Obama to not be racist.
I doubt there was any intentional racism at work, since Sigma has been bombarding me with leaflets of this very ad at work and were probably just continuing their marketing blitzkrieg on the print edition of Nature. In fact, we just got a bunch of chemicals from Sigma the other day in lab, and the box contained a stack of crap talking about the unique forensic properties of dogs' nose prints. Somehow this is supposed to make me want to buy oligos from Sigma. What it does in actuality is make me say "awww, cute dogs" for about two seconds, then say, "FUCK SIGMA AND THEIR SHITTY-ASS OLIGOS!"
Oligos, also known as oligonucleotides or primers, are little snippets of DNA we use in PCR reactions. PCR is basically a technique for photocopying specific stretches of DNA, and that specificity is conferred by the oligos you use. I think that's Sigma's point about the dogs...their primers are as unique as a dog's nose print. Too bad Sigma takes forever to synthesize their primers and half the time they mail you the wrong ones! We used to use Sigma primers in my lab, until we realized that they charge way too much, fuck up orders all the time, and don't synthesize or ship them in a timely manner. I'm way less offended by the perception of accidental racism than the notion that cute dogs and their cute noses should be exploited to whore out Sigma's inferior-ass primer business. Cute dogs never make me wait two weeks on doing some PCR I need because they haven't gotten around to doing quality control on my dumb oligos.
Labels: grad school bullshit, media whores, nerd alert, science
Science says that dissent over descent is dumb
I was just catching up on this week's scintillating issue of Science, and was surprised to see that the editors have obviously been keeping up on this week's debate on creationism versus evolution here on the RAZZY.org comment pages. While I'm hardly surprised that the obviously smart person who puts together the "Books et al" section of Science reads my website, I was a little shocked to see that they selected a book review to contribute to the debate.
The reviewer, Michael Ruse, doesn't think much of philosophy professor Steve Fuller's support of the intelligent design theory, either as an expert witness supporting its relevance in a Pennsylvania classroom or as a competent philosopher. This is probably not surprising, considering this review is published in America's most highly regarded science publication, which also happens to be called Science. However, Ruse nails exactly what those of us in the scientific community reject about intelligent design as a viable, reasonably sound theory on the origin of life. Specifically, after you strip away all the scientastic lingo intended to discredit Darwin's reasoning and give some sort of scientific credibility to Biblical accounts of the origin of the species, you're stuck with something that is based on faith and religious conviction rather than experimental evidence. Ruse scathingly notes:
Intelligent design theory is a form of Christianity made up to look like science. The judge correctly ruled that it has no place in science classrooms. Reading Dissent over Descent should not change anyone's verdict. As a historian and philosopher of science, I can only hope that the science community does not judge us all by Fuller's example.
Well said, Michael Ruse. Could you please get on my comment boards and start explaining this?
Oh, and is anyone besides me disappointed that last night during the VP debate Gwen Ifill didn't ask Sarah Palin if she really believes that Adam and Eve coexisted with the dinosaurs, and those dinosaurs weren't so much "dinosaurs" as mythic dragons? I wanted to see Joe Biden grimace smugly as she tried to tackle that question with Joe Six-Pack in mind. Missed opportunity, Gwen Ifill!
Labels: Dear God, nerd alert, scathing indictments, science
Thursday, October 02, 2008
My night last night, by JerseyGirl
RAZZY Edit: This may look like it was posted by me, but is actually an e-mail I received last Friday morning from my friend JerseyGirl. She swore up and down she wanted to turn this into a blog posting of her own, but has been so busy with work that she hasn't gotten a chance. Plus, she's afraid to look at my website from work because her office is full of annoying snoops that read her computer over her shoulder and would maybe have a negative opinion of her professionalism if a picture of my tits popped up. Anyway, she asked me to retool her "high five me, bitches, because I'm a himalaya playa" e-mail as a post, which I'm only too glad to do since I've been seriously remiss in the useless bullshit production department this week. I wish I had a better excuse than lab is busting my balls...or it would be, if I had balls. You get the idea. Anyway, enjoy JerseyGirl's story about juggling her man-harem.
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
No response.
So I send another text: "Come over"
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
XOBJBS,
JerseyGirl
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, sex, sluts
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
